THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


(^  GLnJtJUjtt 


THE  MADRAS  HOUSE 


BY  GRANriLLE  BARKER 

THE  MADRAS  HOUSE 

ANATOL 

THREE  PLAYS: 

THE  MARRYING  OF  ANNA  LEETE 

THE  VOYSEY  INHERITANCE 

WASTE 


At  All  Bookshops 


1 


MADRAS  HOUSE 

A   COMEDY,    IN   FOUR  ACTS, 
BY   GRANVILLE  BARKER 


NEW  YORK:  MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
MCMXI 


COPYRIGHT   1911   BY 
GRANVILLE  BARKER 


College 

The  Madras  House    Library 

PR, 

A  COMEDY 


1909 


1115765 


THE  MADRAS  HOUSE 
ACT  I 

The  HUXTABLES  live  at  Denmark  Hill,  for  MR.  HUXTABLE 
is  the  surviving  partner  in  the  well-known  Peckham 
drapery  establishment  of  Roberts  &  Huxtable,  and 
the  situation,  besides  being  salubrious,  is  therefore 
convenient.  It  is  a  new  house.  MR.  HUXTABLE 
bought  it  half  finished,  so  that  the  interior  might  be 
to  his  liking;  its  exterior  the  builder  said  one  might 
describe  as  of  a  Free  Queen  Anne  Treatment;  to 
which  MR.  HUXTABLE  rejoined,  after  blinking  at  the 
red  brick  spotted  with  stone  ornament,  that  After 
all  it  was  inside  they  were  going  to  live,  you  know. 

Through  the  stained,  grained  front  door,  rattling  with  col- 
oured glass,  one  reaches  the  hall,  needlessly  narrow, 
needlessly  dark,  but  with  its  black  and  white  tessel- 
lated pavement  making  for  cleanliness.  On  the  left 
is  the  stained  and  grained  staircase,  with  its  Brus- 
sels carpet  and  twisted  brass  stair  rods,  on  the  right 
the  drawing-room.  The  drawing-room  can  hardly 
be  said  to  express  the  personality  of  MR.  HUXTABLE. 
The  foundations  of  its  furnishings  are  in  the  taste 
of  MRS.  HUXTABLE.  F or  fifteen  years  or  so  addi- 
tions to  this  family  museum  have  been  disputed  into 
their  place  by  the  six  MISS  HUXTABLES:  LAURA 
(aged  thirty-nine),  MINNIE,  CLARA.  JULIA,  EMMA, 
JANE  (aged  twenty-six).  The  rosewood  cabinets, 
1 


2  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

the  picture  from  some  Academy  of  the  early  Seven- 
ties, entitled  In  Ye  Olden  Time  (this  was  a  wed- 
ding present,  most  likely),  the  gilt  clock,  which  is 
a  Shakespeare,  narrow-headed,  but  with  a  masterly 
Pair  of  legs,  propped  pensively  against  a  dial  and 
enshrined  beneath  a  dome  of  glass,  another  wed- 
ding present.  These  were  the  treasures  of  MRS. 
HUXTABLE'S  first  drawing-room,  her  solace  in  the 
dull  post-honeymoon  days.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  a  city  merchant,  wholesale  as  against  her  hus- 
band's retail;  but  even  in  the  Seventies  retail  was 
lifting  its  head.  It  was  considered,  though,  that 
KATHERINE  TOMBS  conferred  some  distinction  upon 
young  HARRY  HUXTABLE  by  marrying  him,  and  even 
now,  as  a  portly  lady  nearing  sixty,  she  figures  by 
the  rustle  of  her  dress,  the  measure  of  her  mellow 
voice,  with  its  carefully  chosen  phrases,  for  the 
dignity  of  the  household. 

The  difference  between  one  MISS  HUXTABLE  and  another 
is,  to  a  casual  eye,  the  difference  between  one  lead 
pencil  and  another,  as  these  lie  upon  one's  table, 
after  some  weeks'  use;  a  matter  of  length,  of  sharp- 
ening, of  wear.  LAURA'S  distinction  lies  in  her  be- 
ing the  housekeeper;  it  is  a  solid  power,  that  of 
ordering  the  dinner.  She  is  very  silent.  While  her 
sisters  are  silent  with  strangers,  she  is  silent  with 
her  sisters.  She  doesn't  seem  to  read  much,  either; 
one  hopes  she  dreams,  if  only  of  wild  adventures 
with  a  new  carpet-sweeper.  When  there  was  some 
•family  bitterness  as  to  whether  the  fireplace,  in  sum- 
mer, should  hold  ferns  or  a  Chinese  umbrella,  it 
was  LAURA'S  opinion  that  an  umbrella  gathers  less 
dust,  which  carried  the  day.  MINNIE  and  CLARA  are 
inclined  to  religion;  not  sentimentally;  works  are  a 
good  second  with  them  to  faith.  They  have  veered, 


ACT  i]  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  3 

though,  lately,  from  district  visiting  to  an  interest 
in  Missions — missions  to  Poplar  or  China  (one  is 
almost  as  far  as  the  other) ;  good  works,  the  results 
of  which  they  cannot  see.  Happily,  they  forbear 
to  ask  why  this  proves  the  more  soul-satisfying 
sort. 

JULIA  started  life — that  is  to  say,  left  school — as  a  genius. 
The  head  mistress  had  had  two  or  three  years  of 
such  dull  girls  that  really  she  could  not  resist  this 
excitement.  Watercolour  sketches  were  the  me- 
dium. So  JULIA  was  dressed  in  brown  velveteen, 
and  sent  to  an  art  school,  where  they  wouldn't  let 
her  do  watercolour  drawing  at  all.  And  in  two 
years  she  learnt  enough  about  the  trade  of  an  artist 
not  ever  to  want  to  do  those  watercolour  drawings 
again.  JULIA  is  now  over  thirty,  and  very  unhappy. 
Three  of  her  watercolours  (early  masterpieces) 
hang  on  the  drawing-room  wall.  They  shame  her, 
but  her  mother  won't  have  them  taken  down.  On 
a  holiday  she'll  be  off  now  and  then  for  a  solitary 
day's  sketching,  and  as  she  tears  up  the  vain  attempt 
to  put  on  paper  the  things  she  has  learnt  to  see,  she 
sometimes  cries.  It  was  JULIA,  EMMA  and  JANE 
who,  some  years  ago,  conspired  to  present  their 
mother  with  that  intensely  conspicuous  cosy  corner. 
A  cosy  corner  is  apparently  a  device  for  making  a 
corner  just  what  the  very  nature  of  a  corner  should 
forbid  it  to  be.  They  beggared  themselves;  but 
one  wishes  that  MR.  HUXTABLE  were  more  lavish 
with  his  dress  allowances,  then  they  might  at  least 
have  afforded  something  not  quite  so  hideous. 

EMMA,  having  JULIA  in  mind,  has  run  rather  to  coats  and 
skirts  and  common  sense.  She  would  have  been  a 
success  in  an  office,  and  worth,  perhaps,  thirty  shil- 
lings a  week.  But  the  HUXTABLES  don't  want  an- 


4>  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

other  thirty  shillings  a  week,  and  this  gift,  such 
as  it  is,  has  been  wasted,  so  that  EMMA  runs  also 
to  a  brusque  temper. 

JANE  is  meekly  enough  a  little  wild.  MRS.  HUXTABLE'S 
power  of  applying  the  brake  of  good  breeding, 
strong  enough  over  five  daughters,  waned  at  the 
sixth  attempt  in  twelve  years,  and  JANE  has  actu- 
ally got  herself  proposed  to  twice  by  not  quite 
desirable  young  men.  Now  the  fact  that  she  was 
old  enough  to  be  proposed  to  at  all  came  as  some- 
thing of  a  shock  to  the  family.  Birthdays  pass, 
their  celebration  growing  less  emphatic.  No  one 
likes  to  believe  that  the  years  are  passing;  even 
the  birthday's  owner,  least  able  to  escape  its  signifi- 
cance, laughs,  and  then  changes  the  subject.  So 
the  MISS  HUXTABLES  never  openly  asked  each  other 
what  the  marriage  of  the  youngest  of  them  might 
imply;  perhaps  they  never  even  asked  themselves. 
Besides,  JANE  didn't  marry.  But  if  she  does,  un- 
less, perhaps,  she  runs  away  to  do  it,  there  will  be 
heart  searchings,  at  least.  MR.  HUXTABLE  asked, 
though,  and  MRS.  HUXTABLE'S  answer — given  early 
one  morning,  before  the  hot  water  came — scarcely 
satisfied  him.  "For,"  said  MR.  HUXTABLE,  "if  the 
girls  don't  marry  some  day,  what  are  they  to  do! 
It's  not  as  if  they  had  to  go  into  the  shop."  "No, 
thank  Heaven!"  said  MRS.  HUXTABLE. 

Since  his  illness  MR.  HUXTABLE  has  taken  to  asking  ques- 
tions— of  anybody  and  about  anything;  of  himself 
dftenest  of  all.  But  for  that  illness  he  would  have 
been  a  conventional  enough  type  of  successful  shop- 
keeper, coarsely  fed,  whiskered,  podgy.  But  eight- 
een months'  nursing  and  dieting  and  removal  from 
the  world  seem  to  have  brought  a  gentleness  to  his 
voice,  a  spark  of  humour  to  his  eye,  a  childishness 


ACT  i]  THE    MADRAS    HOUSE  5 

to  his  little  bursts  of  temper — they  have  added,  in 
fact,  a  wistfulness  which  makes  him  rather  a  love- 
able  old  buffer  on  the  whole. 

This  is  a  Sunday  morning,  a  bright  day  in  October.  The 
family  are  still  at  church,  and  the  drawing-room 
is  empty.  The  door  opens,  and  the  parlour-maid 
— much  becapped  and  aproned — shews  in  PHILIP 
MADRAS  and  his  friend,  MAJOR  HIPPISLY  THOMAS. 
THOMAS,  long  legged  and  deliberate,  moves  across 
the  room  to  the  big  French  windows,  which  open 
onto  a  balcony  and  look  down  on  the  garden  and 
to  many  gardens  beyond.  Thomas  is  a  good  fellow. 

PHILIP  MADRAS  is  more  complex  than  that.  To  begin  with, 
it  is  obvious  he  is  not  wholly  English  A  cer- 
tain likeness  of  figure,  the  keenness  and  colour  of 
his  voice,  and  a  liking  for  metaphysical  turns  of 
speech,  shew  an  Eastern  origin,  perhaps.  He  is 
kind  in  manner,  but  rather  cold,  capable  of  that 
least  English  of  dispositions — intellectual  passion. 
He  is  about  thirty-five,  a  year  or  two  younger  than 
his  friend.  The  parlour-maid  has  secured  MAJOR 
THOMAS'S  hat,  and  stands  clutching  it.  As  PHILIP 
passes  her  into  the  room  he  asks  .  .  . 
PHILIP.  About  how  long? 
THE  MAID.  In  just  a  few  minutes  now,  I  should  say, 

sir.     Oh,   I  beg  pardon,  does  it  appen  to  be  the  third 

Sunday  in  the  month? 
PHILIP.     I  don't  know.    Tommy,  does  it? 
THOMAS.     [From  the  window.]    Don't  ask  me.    Well,  I 

suppose  I  can  tell  you.     [And  he  vaguely  fishes  for  his 

diary.] 

THE  MAID.     No,  I  don't  think  it  does,  sir.    Because  then 

some  of  them  stop  for  the  Oly  Communion,  and  that  may 

make  them  late  for  dinner,  but  I  don't  think  it  is,  sir. 


6  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

She  backs  through  the  door,  entangling  the  hat  in 
the  handle. 

PHILIP.     Is  my  mother  still  staying  here? 

THE  MAID.     Mrs.  Madras,  sir?    Yes,  sir. 

Then  having  disentangled  the  hat,  the  parlour-maid 
vanishes.  PHILIP  thereupon  plunges  swiftly  into 
what  must  be  an  interrupted  argument. 

PHILIP.  Well,  my  dear  Tommy,  what  are  the  two  most 
important  things  in  a  man's  character?  His  attitude 
towards  money  and  his  attitude  towards  women. 

THOMAS.  [Ponderously  slowing  him  up.']  Yes,  you're 
full  up  with  moral  precepts.  Why  behave  about  money 
as  if  it  didn't  exist?  I  never  said  don't  join  the  County 
Council. 

PHILIP.     [Deliberately,  but  in  a  breath.']     It  is  quite 
impossible  for  any  decent  man  to  walk  with  his  eyes  open 
from  Waterloo  to  Denmark  Hill  on  a  Sunday  morning 
without  wishing  me  to  stand  for  the  County  Council. 
THOMAS  entrenches  himself  on  a  sofa. 

THOMAS.  You've  got  what  I  call  the  Reformer's  mind. 
I  shouldn't  cultivate  it,  Phil.  It  makes  a  man  unhappy  and 
discontented,  not  with  himself,  but  with  other  people,  mark 
you  ...  so  it  makes  him  conceited,  and  puts  him  out  of 
condition  both  ways.  Don't  you  get  to  imagine  you  can 
make  this  country  better  by  tidying  it  up. 

PHILIP.  [Whimsically.']  But  I'm  very  interested  in 
England,  Tommy. 

THOMAS.  [Not  without  some  answering  humour.']  We 
all  are.  But  we  don't  all  need  to  go  about  saying  so. 
Even  I  can  be  interested  in  England,  I  suppose,  though  I 
have  had  to  chuck  the  Army  and  take  to  business  to  earn 
bread  and  treacle  for  a  wife  and  four  children  .  .  .  and 
not  a  bad  thing  for  me,  either.  I  tell  you  if  every  chap 
would  look  after  himself  and  his  family,  and  lead  a  godly, 
righteous  and  sober  life — I'm  »orry,  but  it  is  Sunday — 


ACT  i]  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  7 

England  would  get  on  a  damn  sight  better  than  it  will  with 
all  your  interference. 

He  leans  back.  PHILIP'S  eyes  fix  themselves  on 
some  great  distance. 

PHILIP.  It's  a  muddled  country.  One's  first  instinct  is 
to  be  rhetorical  about  it  ...  to  write  poetry  and  relieve 
one's  feelings.  I  once  thought  I  might  be  self-sacrificing 
— give  my  goods  to  the  poor,  and  go  slumming — keeping 
my  immortal  soul  superior  still.  There's  something  wrong 
with  a  world,  Tommy,  in  which  it  takes  a  man  like  me 
all  his  time  to  find  out  that  it's  bread  people  want,  and 
not  either  cake  or  crumbs. 

THOMAS.  There's  something  wrong  with  a  man  while 
he  will  think  of  other  people  as  if  they  were  ants  on  an 
ant  heap. 

PHILIP.  [Relaxing  to  a  smile.]  Tommy,  that's  per- 
fectly true.  I  like  having  a  good  talk  with  you:  sooner 
or  later  you  always  say  one  sensible  thing. 

THOMAS.  Thank  you;  you're  damn  polite.  And,  as 
usual,  we've  got  right  off  the  point. 

PHILIP.     The  art  of  conversation ! 

THOMAS.  [Shying  at  the  easy  epigram.]  Go  on  six 
County  Councils,  if  you  like.  But  why  chuck  up  seven 
hundred  a  year  and  a  directorship,  if  State  wants  you 
to  keep  'em?  And  you  could  have  double  or  more,  and 
manage  the  place,  if  you'd  ask  for  it. 

PHILIP.  [Almost  venomously]  Tommy,  I  loathe  the 
Madras  House.  State  may  buy  it,  and  do  what  he  likes 
with  it. 

JULIA  and  LAURA  arrive.  They  are  the  first  from 
Church.  Sunday  frocks,  Sunday  hats,  best  gloves, 
umbrellas  and  prayer  books. 

JULIA.     Oh,  what  a  surprise ! 

PHILIP.    Yes,  we  walked  down.     Ah,  you  don't  know 


8  THE   MADRAS    HOUSE  [ACT  i 

.  .  .  Let  me  introduce  Major  Hippisly  Thomas  ...  my 
cousin,  Miss  Julia  Huxtable  .  .  .  and  Miss  Huxtable. 

JULIA.     How  do  you  do? 

THOMAS.     How  do  you  do? 

LAURA.     How  do  you  do  ? 

JULIA.     Have  you  come  to  see  Aunt  Amy? 

PHILIP.     No,  your  father. 

JULIA.  He's  walking  back  with  her.  They'll  be  last, 
I'm  afraid. 

LAURA.     Will  you  stay  to  dinner  ? 

PHILIP.     No,  I  think  not. 

LAURA.  I'd  better  tell  them  you  won't.  Perhaps  they'll 
be  laying  for  you. 

LAURA  goes  out,  decorously  avoiding  a  collision  with 
EMMA,  who,  panoplied  as  the  others,  comes  in  at 
the  same  moment. 

PHILIP.    Hullo,  Emma! 

EMMA.     Well,  what  a  surprise! 

PHIIIP.  You  don't  know  .  .  .  Major  Hippisly  Thomas 
.  .  .  Miss  Emma  Huxtable. 

THOMAS.    How  do  you  do? 

EMMA.     How  do  you  do?    Will  you  stay  to  dinner ? 

PHILIP.  No,  we  can't.  [That  formula  again  completed, 
he  varies  his  explanation.']  I've  just  brought  Thomas  a 
Sunday  morning  walk  to  help  me  tell  Uncle  Henry  a  bit 
of  news.  My  father  will  be  back  in  England  to-morrow. 

EMMA.     [With  a  round  tnouth.~\    Oh! 

JULIA.     It's  a  beautiful  morning  for  a  walk,  isn't  it? 

THOMAS.     Wonderful  for  October. 

These  two  look  first  at  each  other,  and  then  out  of 
the  window.  EMMA  gazes  quizzically  at  PHILIP. 

EMMA.     I  think  he  knows. 

PHILIP.     He  sort  of  knows. 

EMMA.     Why  are  you  being  odd,  Philip? 


ACT  i]          THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  9 

PHILIP  is  more  hail-fellow-well-met  with  EMMA  than 
with  the  others. 

PHILIP.  Emma  ...  I  have  enticed  a  comparative 
stranger  to  be  present  so  that  your  father  and  mother 
cannot,  in  decency,  begin  to  fight  the  family  battle  over 
again  with  me.  I  know  it's  very  cunning,  but  we  did  want 
a  walk.  Besides,  there's  a  meeting  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

JANE  peeps  through  the  door. 
JANE.     You?    Mother! 

She  has  turned  to  the  hall,  and  from  the  hall  comes 
MRS.  HUXTABLE'S  rotund  voice,  "Yes,  Jane!" 
JANE.     Cousin  Philip! 

MRS.  HUXTABLE  sails  in,  and  superbly  compresses 
every  family  greeting  into  one. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  What  a  surprise!  Will  you  stay  to 
dinner? 

EMMA.  [Alive  to  a  certain  redundancy.]  No,  Mother, 
they  can't. 

PHILIP.  May  I  introduce  my  friend  .  .  .  Major  Hip- 
pisly  Thomas  ...  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Huxtable. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  [Stately  and  gracious.]  How  do  you 
do,  Major  Thomas? 

PHILIP.    Thomas  is  Mr.  Eustace  State's  London  man- 
ager. 
THOMAS.     How  do  you  do? 

MRS.  HUXTABLE  takes  an  armchair  with  the  air  of 
one  mounting  a  throne,  and  from  that  vantage  point 
begins  polite  conversation.  Her  daughters  dis- 
tribute themselves,  so  do  PHILIP  and  HIPPISLY 
THOMAS. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  Not  in  the  Army,  then,  Major 
Thomas? 

THOMAS.     I  was  in  the  Army. 
EMMA.     Jessica  quite  well,  Philip? 
PHILIP.     Yes,  thanks. 


10  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

EMMA.     And  Mildred? 

PHILIP.     I  think  so.    She's  back  at  school. 

MRS.  HUXTABI.E.  A  wonderfully  warm  autumn,  is  it 
not? 

THOMAS.    Quite. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     Do  you  know  Denmark  Hill  well? 

THOMAS.     Not  well. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  We  have  always  lived  here.  I  con- 
sider it  healthy.  But  London  is  a  healthy  place,  I  think. 
Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  .  .  .  my  daughter  Jane. 

JANE.     How  do  you  do? 

They  shake  hands  with  ceremony.  EMMA,  in  a  mind 
to  liven  things  up,  goes  to  the  window. 

EMMA.     We've  quite  a  good  garden,  that's  one  thing. 

THOMAS.  [Not  wholly  innocent  of  an  attempt  to  escape 
from  his  hostess,  makes  for  the  window,  too.']  I  noticed 
it.  I  am  keen  on  gardens. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  [Her  attention  distracted  by  JULIA'S 
making  for  the  door.]  Julia,  where  are  you  going? 

JULIA.     To  take  my  things  off,  Mother. 

JULIA  departs.  When  they  were  quite  little  girls 
MRS.  HUXTABLE  always  did  ask  her  daughters  where 
they  were  going  when  they  left  the  room,  and 
where  they  had  been  when  they  entered  it,  and  she 
has  never  dropped  the  habit.  They  resent  it  only 
by  the  extreme  patience  of  their  replies. 

EMMA.     [Entertainingly.]    That's  the  Crystal  Palace. 

THOMAS.     Is  it? 

They  both  peer  appreciatively  at  that  famous  land- 
mark. In  the  Crystal  Palace  and  the  sunset  the 
inhabitants  of  Denmark  Hill  have  acquired  almost 
proprietary  interest.  Then  MRS.  HUXTABLE  speaks 
to  her  nepheui  with  a  sudden  severity. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  Philip,  I  don't  consider  your  mother's 
health  is  at  all  the  thing. 


ACT  i]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  11 

PHILIP.     [Amicably.]    It  never  is,  Aunt  Kate. 
MRS.  HUXTABLE.     [Admitting  the  justice  of  the  retort.] 
That's  true. 

PHILIP.     Uncle  Henry  keeps  better,  I  think. 
MRS.  HUXTABLE.    He's  well  enough  now.    I  have  had  a 
slight  cold.     Is  it  true  that  your  father  may  appear  in 
England  again? 

PHILIP.  Yes,  he  has  only  been  on  the  Continent.  He 
arrives  to-morrow. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     I'm  sorry. 
JANE.     Mother ! 

MRS.  HUXTABLE  has  launched  this  with  such  re- 
doubled severity  that  JANE  had  to  protest.  How- 
ever, at  this  moment  arrives  MR.  HUXTABLE  himself, 
one  glad  smile. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Ah,  Phil  ...  I  ad  an  idea  you  might 
come  over.  You'll  stay  to  dinner.  Jane,  tell  your  aunt 
.  .  .  she's  taking  er  bonnet  off. 

JANE  obeys.  He  sights  on  the  balcony  MAJOR 
THOMAS'S  back. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     Who's  that  outside  ? 
PHILIP.     Hippisly   Thomas.     We   wanted  a  walk;  we 
can't  stay. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.      Oh! 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.    Have  you  come  on  business? 

PHILIP.    Well  .  .  . 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.    On  Sunday? 

PHILIP.    Not  exactly. 

She  shakes  her  head,  gravely  deprecating.    THOMAS 

comes  from  the  balcony. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.    How  are  you? 
THOMAS.    How  are  you? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Fine  morning,  isn't  it?  Nice  prospect, 
this  ...  see  the  Crystal  Palace  ? 

While  THOMAS  turns,  with  perfect  politeness,   to 


12  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  i 

view  again   this  phenomenon,  PHILIP  pacifies  his 
aunt. 

PHILIP.  You  see,  Aunt  Katherine,  to-morrow  afternoon 
we  have  the  first  real  conference  with  this  Mr.  State 
about  buying  up  the  two  firms,  and  my  father  is  passing 
through  England  again  to  attend  it. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  Of  course,  Philip,  if  it's  business,  I 
know  nothing  about  it.  But  is  it  suggested  that  your  uncle 
should  attend,  too? 

Her  voice  has  found  a  new  gravity.     PHILIP  be- 
comes very  airy;  so  does  MR.  HUXTABLE,  who  comes 
back  to  rejoin  the  conversation. 
PHILIP.     My  dear  aunt,  naturally. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.     What's  this? 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  [The  one  word  expressing  volumes.] 
Constantine. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [With  elaborate  innocence.]  That's 
definite  now,  is  it? 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     You  dropped  a  hint  last  night,  Henry. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.     I  dessay.     I  dessay  I  did.     [His  eye 
shifts  guiltily.] 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  Quite  out  of  the  question,  it  seems 
to  me. 

JANE  comes  back. 
JANE.    Aunt  Mary's  coming. 

MR.   HUXTABLE.     [Genial  again.]     Oh !     My  daughter 
Jane  .  .  .  Major  Thomas,  Major  Hippisly  Thomas. 
JANE.     [With  discretion.]     Yes,  Father. 
MRS.   HUXTABLE.     [Tactfully.]     You  are  naturally  not 
aware,  Major  Thomas,  that  for  family  reasons,  into  which 
we  need  not  go,  Mr.   Huxtable  has  not  spoken   to  his 
brother-in-law  for  a  number  of  years. 

PHILIP'S  eye  meets  THOMAS'S  in  comic  agony.  But 
MR.  HUXTABLE,  too,  plunges  delightedly  into  the  for- 
bidden subject. 


ACT  i]  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  13 

MR.  HUXTABLE.    Thirty  years,  very  near.     Wonderful, 
isn't  it?     Interested  in  the  same  business.     Wasn't  easy 
to  keep  it  up. 
THOMAS.     I  had  heard. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.    Oh,  yes,  notorious. 
MRS.  HUXTABLE.     [/H  reprobation.']    And  well  it  may  be, 
Henry. 

MRS.  MADRAS  comes  in.  It  is  evident  that  PHILIP  is 
his  father's  son.  He  would  seem  so  wholly  but  for 
that  touch  of  "self  worship  which  is  often  self 
mistrust;"  his  mother's  gift,  appearing  nowadays 
less  loveably  in  her  as  a  sort  of  querulous  assertion 
of  her  rights  and  wrongs  against  the  troubles  which 
have  been  too  strong  for  her.  She  is  a  pale  old 
lady,  shrunk  a  little,  the  life  gone  out  of  her. 
MRS.  HUXTABLE.  [Some  severity  remaining.']  Amy, 
your  husband  is  in  England  again. 

PHILIP  presents  a  filial  cheek.    It  is  kissed. 
PHILIP.    How  are  you,  Mother? 

MR.    HUXTABLE.     [Sotto   voce.~\      Oh,    tact,   Katherine, 
tact! 

PHILIP.    Perhaps  you  remember  Reggie  Thomas? 
THOMAS.      I    was   at    Marlborough    with    Philip,    Mrs. 
Madras. 
MRS.  MADRAS.     Yes.    Is  he,  Katherine  ? 

Having  given  THOMAS  a  limp  hand,  and  her  sister 
this  coldest  of  responses,  $he  finds  her  way  to  a 
sofa,  where  she  sits  silent,  thinking  to  herself.  MRS. 
HUXTABLE  keeps  majestic  hold  upon  her  subject. 
MRS.   HUXTABLE.     I   am  utterly   unable   to  see,   Philip, 
why  your  uncle  should  break  through  his  rule  now. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.    There  you  are,  Phil ! 
PHILIP.    Of  course  it  is  quite   for   Uncle   Henry   to 
decide. 


14  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Naturally  .  .  .  naturally.  [S/i//  he  has 
an  appealing  eye  on  PHILIP,  who  obliges  him.'] 

PHILIP.  But  since  Mr.  State's  offer  may  not  be  only 
for  the  Madras  House,  but  Roberts  and  Huxtable  into  the 
bargain  ...  if  the  two  principal  proprietors  can't  meet 
him  round  a  table  to  settle  the  matter  .  .  . 

THOMAS.  [Ponderously  diplomatic.']  Yes  ...  a  little 
awkward  ...  if  I  may  say  so  ...  as  Mr.  State's  repre- 
sentative, Mrs.  Huxtable. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  You  don't  think,  do  you,  Major 
Thomas,  that  any  amount  of  awkwardness  should  induce 
us  to  pass  over  wicked  conduct? 

This  reduces  the  assembly  to  such  a  shamed  silence 
that  poor  MR.  HUXTABLE  can  only  add 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Oh,  talk  of  something  else  .  .  .  talk  of 
something  else. 

After  a  moment  MRS.  MADRAS'S  pale  voice  steals  in, 
as  she  turns  to  her  son. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     When  did  you  hear  from  your  father  ? 

PHILIP.  A  letter  from  Marienbad  two  or  three  days 
ago,  and  a  telegram  yesterday  morning. 

MRS.    HUXTABLE,  with  a  hostess's  authority,  now 
restores  a  polite  and  easy  tone  to  the  conversation. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  And  have  you  left  the  Army  long, 
Major  Thomas? 

THOMAS.     Four  years. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  Now  what  made  you  take  to  the 
Drapery  Trade? 

PHILIP.  [Very  explanatory.]  Mr.  State  is  an  Ameri- 
can financier,  Aunt  Kitty,  who  has  bought  up  Burrow's, 
the  big  mantle  place  in  the  city,  and  is  about  to  buy  us 
up,  too,  perhaps. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     We  are  not  in  difficulties,  I  hope. 

PHILIP.    Oh,  no. 


ACT  i]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  15 

MRS.   HUXTABLE.      No.      No  doubt  Henry  would  have 
told  me  if  we  had  been. 

As  she  thus  gracefully  dismisses  the  subject  there 
appear  up  the  steps  and  along  the  balcony  the  last 
arrivals  from  Church,  MINNIE  and  CLARA.      The 
male  part  of  the  company  unsettles  itself. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.    Ullo !    Where  have  you  been? 
MINNIE.     We  went  for  a  walk. 

MRS.    HUXTABLE.     [/«    apparently   deep   surprise.]      A 
walk,  Minnie!    Where  to? 

MINNIE.     Just  the  long  way  home.     We  thought  we'd 
have  time. 

CLARA.     Did  you  notice  what  a  short  sermon? 
MR.   HUXTABLE.      Oh,  may   I  ...  My  daughter   Clara 
.  .  .  Major  Ippisly  Thomas.     My  daughter  Minnie  .  .  . 
Major  Thomas. 

The  conventional  chant  begins. 
MINNIE.     How  d'  you  do? 
THOMAS.     How  d'  you  do? 
CLARA.    How  d'  you  do? 
MINNIE.     How  d'  you  do,  Philip? 
PHILIP.     How  d'  you  do? 
CLARA.     How  d'  you  do? 
PHILIP.     How  d'  you  do? 

The  chant  over,  the  company  re-settles;  MR.  HUX- 
TABLE buttonholing  PHILIP  in  the  process  with  an 
air  of  some  mystery. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     By  the  way,  Phil,  remind  me  to  ask 
you  something  before  you  go  ...  rather  important. 

PHILIP.    I    shall    be    at   your    place    in    the    morning. 
Thomas  is  coming  to  go  through  some  figures. 

MR.    HUXTABLE.     [With  a  regular  snap.]     Yes  ...  I 
shan't. 

PHILIP.     The  State  meeting  is  in   Bond   Street,  three 
o'clock. 


1(>  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  I  know,  I  know.  [Then,  finding  him- 
self prominent,  he  captures  the  conversation.}  I'm  slack- 
ing off,  Major  Thomas,  slacking  off.  Ever  since  I  was  ill 
I've  been  slacking  off. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.    You  are  perfectly  well  now,  Henry. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Not  the  point.  I  want  leisure,  you 
know,  leisure.  Time  for  reading  .  .  .  time  to  think  a  bit. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  Nonsense !  [She  adds,  with  correct- 
ness.'] Major  Thomas  will  excuse  me. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [On  his  hobby.]  Oh,  well  ...  a  man 
must  .  .  .  some  portion  of  his  life  .  .  . 

THOMAS.     Quite.    I  got  most  of  my  reading  done  early. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.    The  natural  time  for  it. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Ah,  lucky  feller !  Educated,  I  suppose. 
Well,  I  wasn't.  I've  been  getting  the  books  for  years — 
good  editions.  I'd  like  you  to  see  my  library.  But  these 
geniuses  want  settling  down  to  ...  if  a  man's  to  keep 
pace  with  the  thought  of  the  world,  y'  know.  Macaulay, 
Erbert  Spencer,  Grote's  Istory  of  Greece!  I've  got  em 
all  there. 

He  finds  no  further  response.    MRS.  HUXTABLE  fills 
the  gap. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  I  thought  the  sermon  dull  this  morn- 
ing, Amy,  didn't  you? 

MRS.  MADRAS.     [Unexpectedly.]     No,  I  didn't. 

MINNIE.  [To  do  her  share  of  the  entertaining.]  Moth- 
er, somebody  ought  to  speak  about  those  boys  .  .  .  it's 
disgraceful.  Mr.  Vivian  had  actually  to  turn  round  from 
the  organ  at  them  during  the  last  hymn. 

JULIA,  her  things  taken  off,  re-appears.    MR.  HUX- 
TABLE is  on  the  spot. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.    Ah,  my  daughter  Julia  .  .  .  Major 

JULIA.     We've  been  introduced,  Father. 

She  says  this  with  a  hauteur  which  really  is  pure 


ACT  i]  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  1.7 

nervousness,  but  MR.  HUXTABLE  is  sufficiently 
crushed. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     Oh,  I  beg  pardon. 

But  MRS.  HUXTABLE  disapproves  of  any  self-asser- 
tion, and  descends  upon  the  culprit;  who  is,  for 
some  obscure  reason  (or  for  none),  more  often 
disapproved  of  than  the  others. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     Close  the  door,  please,  Julia. 

JULIA.     I'm  sorry,  Mother. 

PHILIP  closes  the  offending  door.  JULIA  obliter- 
ates herself  in  a  chair,  and  the  conversation,  hardly 
encouraged  by  this  little  affray,  comes  to  an  intol- 
erable standstill.  At  last  CLARA  makes  an  effort. 

CLARA.     Is  Jessica  quite  well,  Philip? 

PHILIP.     Yes,  thank  you,  Clara. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     And  dear  little  Mildred? 

PHILIP.     Yes,  thank  you,  Aunt  Kate. 

Further  standstill.  Then  MINNIE  contrives  a  re- 
mark. 

MINNIE.     Do  you  still  like  that  school  for  her? 

PHILIP.     [With  finesse.']     It  seems  to  provide  every  ac- 
complishment that  money  can  buy. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE  discovers  a  sure  opening. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     Have  you  been  away  for  the  summer, 
Major  Thomas? 

THOMAS.       [Vaguely — he     is    getting     sympathetically 
tongue-tied.~\     Oh  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 

PHILIP.     Tommy  and  Jessica  and  I  took  our  holidays 
motoring  around  Munich  and  into  it  for  the  operas. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     Was  that  pleasant? 

PHILIP.     Very. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     And  where  was  dear  Mildred? 

PHILIP.     With  her  aunt  most  of  the  time  .  .  .  Jessica's 
sister-in-law,  you  know. 

MINNIE.     Lady  Ames? 


18  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  i 

PHILIP.     Yes. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.   [Innocently,  genuinely  snobbish.]   Very 
nice  for  her. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.    We  take  a  ouse  at  Weymouth,  as  a  rule. 
MRS.    HUXTABLE.      Do    you    know    Weymouth,    Major 
Thomas  ? 

THOMAS.     No,  I  don't. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     George  III  used  to  stay  there,  but  that 
is  a  hotel  now. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     Keep  your  spare  money  in  the  coun- 
try, y'  know. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     Oh,  there  is  everything  one  wants  at 
Weymouth. 

But  even  this  subject  flags. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     You  think  more  of  Bognor,  Amy,  I 
know. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     Only  to  live  in,  Katherine. 

They  have  made  their  last  effort.  The  conversation 
is  dead.  MR.  HUXTABLE'S  discomfort  suddenly  be- 
comes physical. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     I'm  going  to  change  my  coat. 
PHILIP.     I  think  perhaps  we  ought  to  be  off. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.     No,  no,  no,  no,  no !    I  shan't  be  a  min- 
ute.   Don't  go,  Phil ;  there's  a  good  fellow. 

And  he  has  left  them  all  to  it.  The  HUXTABLE  con- 
versation, it  will  be  noticed,  consists  mainly  of  ask- 
ing questions.  Visitors,  after  a  time,  fall  into  the 
habit,  too. 

PHILIP.     Do  you  like  this  house  better  than  the  old  one, 
Clara? 

CLARA.     It  has  more  rooms,  you  know. 
MRS.    HUXTABLE.      Do    you    live    in    London,    Major 
Thomas  ? 

THOMAS.     No,  I  live  at  Woking.     I  come  up  and  down 
every  day.  I  think  the  country's  better  for  the  children. 


ACT  i]          THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  19 

MRS.  HUXTABI.E.     Not  a  cheerful  place,  is  it? 

THOMAS.     Oh,  very  cheerful. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.    I  had  thought  not,  for  some  reason. 

EMMA.    The  cemetery,  Mother. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  [Accepting  the  suggestion  with  dig- 
nity.'] Perhaps. 

CLARA.  And  of  course  there's  a  much  larger  garden. 
We  have  the  garden  of  the  next  house  as  well. 

JANE.     Not  all  the  garden  of  the  next  house. 

CLARA.     Well,  most  of  it. 

This  stimulating  difference  of  opinion  takes  them  to 
the  balcony.  PHILIP  follows.  JULIA  follows  PHILIP. 
MINNIE  departs  to  take  her  things  off. 

JULIA.  Do  you  notice  how  near  the  Crystal  Palace 
seems?  That  means  rain. 

PHILIP.     Of  course  .  .  .  you  can  see  the  Crystal  Palace. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  Julia,  do  you  think  you  won't  catch 
cold  on  the  balcony  without  a  hat? 

JULIA.  [Meek,  but,  before  the  visitor,  determined.']  I 
don't  think  so,  Mother. 

MRS.    HUXTABLE   turns,   with   added   politeness,    to 

MAJOR  THOMAS. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  Yes,  we  used  to  live  not  so  far  along 
the  hill;  it  certainly  was  a  smaller  house. 

PHILIP  is  now  on  the  balcony,  receiving  more  infor- 
mation. 

PHILIP.  That's  Ruskin's  house,  is  it?  Yes,  I  see  the 
chimney  pots. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  I  should  not  have  moved,  myself,  but 
I  was  overruled. 

EMMA.     Mother,  we  had  grown  out  of  Hollybank. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  I  was  overruled.  Things  are  done  on 
a  larger  scale  than  they  used  to  be.  Not  that  I  approve 
of  that. 

THOMAS.     Of  course  one's  family  will  grow  up. 


20  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  People  spend  their  money  now-a-days. 
I  remember  my  father's  practice  was  to  live  on  half  his 
income.  However,  he  lost  the  greater  part  of  his  money 
by  unwise  investments  in  lead,  I  think  it  was.  I  was  at 
school  at  the  time,  in  Brighton.  And  he  educated  me 
above  my  station  in  life. 

At  this  moment  CLARA  breaks  out  of  the  conserva- 
tory.   Something  has  happened. 
CLARA.    Jane,  the  Agapanthus  is  out  at  last ! 
JANE.    Oh ! 

They  crowd  in  to  see  it.     PHILIP  crowds  in,  too. 
MRS.  HUXTABLE  is  unmoved. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  We  are  told  that  riches  are  a  snare, 
Major  Thomas. 

THOMAS.  It  is  one  I  have  always  found  easy  to  avoid, 
Mrs.  Huxtable. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  [Oblivious  of  the  joke,  which,  indeed, 
she  would  not  have  expected  on  such  a  subject.}  And  I 
have  noticed  that  their  acquisition  seldom  improves  the 
character  of  people  in  my  station  of  life.  I  am,  of  course, 
ignorant  of  my  husband's  affairs  .  .  .  that  is  to  say,  I 
keep  myself  as  ignorant  as  possible  .  .  .  but  it  is  my  wish 
that  the  ordering  of  our  household  should  remain  as  it 
was  when  we  were  first  married. 

THOMAS.     [Forestalling  a  yawn.}     Quite  so.    Quite  so. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE  takes  a  breath. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  A  family  of  daughters,  Major 
Thomas  .  .  . 

EMMA.     [A  little  agonised.']    Mother! 
MRS.  HUXTABLE.     What  is  it,  Emma? 

But  EMMA  thinks  better  of  it,  and  goes  to  join  the 

Agapanthus  party,  saying 

EMMA.     Nothing,  Mother.     I  beg  your  pardon. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE  retakes  her  breath. 
MRS.  HUXTABLE.    What  were  we  saying  ? 


ACT  i]  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  21 

THOMAS.  [With  resigned  politeness.]  A  family  of 
daughters. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     Yes.    Were  you  in  the  war? 

The  inexplicable  but  characteristic  suddenness  of 
this  rouses  the  MAJOR  a  little. 

THOMAS.     I  was. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  I  find  that  people  look  differently  on 
family  life  to  what  they  used.  A  man  no  longer  seems 
prepared  to  marry  and  support  a  wife  and  family  by  his 
unaided  exertions.  I  consider  that  a  pity. 

THOMAS.     [Near  another  yawn.']     Quite  .  .  .  quite  so. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  I  have  always  determined  that  my 
daughters  should  be  sought  after  for  themselves  alone. 
That  should  ensure  their  happiness.  Any  eligible  gentle- 
man who  visits  here  constantly  is  always  given  to  under- 
stand, delicately,  that  nothing  need  be  expected  from  Mr. 
Huxtable  beyond  his  approval.  You  are  married,  I  think 
you  said,  Major  Thomas. 

This  quite  wakes  him  up,  though  MRS.  HUXTABLE 
is  really  innocent  of  her  implication. 

THOMAS.    Yes.     Oh,  dear  me,  yes. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     And  a  family? 

THOMAS.    Four  children  .  .  .  the  youngest  is  only  three. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     Pretty  dear! 

THOMAS.     No ;  ugly  little  beggar,  but  has  character. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  I  must  take  off  my  things  before  din- 
ner. You'll  excuse  me.  If  one  is  not  punctual  oneself  .  .  . 

THOMAS.    Quite. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     We  cannot  induce  you  to  join  us? 

THOMAS.  Many  thanks,  but  we  have  to  meet  Mrs.  Phil 
for  lunch  in  town  at  two. 

MRS.  HUXTAHLE.     I  am  sorry. 

THOMAS  opens  the  door  for  her  with  his  best  bow, 
and  she  graciously  departs,  conscious  of  hazing 
properly  impressed  him.  CLARA,  who  has  now  her 


22  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

things  to  take  off,  crosses  the  room,  saying  to 
PHILIP,  who  follows  her  from  the  balcony 

CLARA.  Yes,  I'll  tell  father,  Philip.  I'm  going  upstairs. 
THOMAS  opens  the  door  for  her,  but  only  with  his 
second  best  bow,  and  then  turns  to  PHILIP  with  a 
sigh. 

THOMAS.     Phil,  we  ought  to  be  going. 

PHILIP.    Wait  till  you've  seen  my  uncle  again. 

THOMAS.    All  right. 

He  heaves  another  sigh  and  sits  down.  All  this 
time  there  has  been  MRS.  MADRAS  upon  her  sofa, 
silent,  as  forgotten  as  any  other  piece  of  furniture 
for  which  there  is  no  immediate  use.  PHILIP  now 
goes  to  her.  When  she  does  speak  it  is  unrespon- 
sively. 

PHILIP.     How  long  do  you  stay  in  town,  Mother? 

MRS.  MADRAS.     I  have  been  here  a  fortnight.    I  gener- 
ally stay  three  weeks. 

PHILIP.    Jessica  has  been  meaning  to  ask  you  to  Philli- 
more  Gardens  again. 

MRS.    MADRAS.       Has   she  ? 

PHILIP.     [A  little  guiltily.']  Her  time's  very  much  occu- 
pied .  .  .  with  one  thing  and  another. 

Suddenly  MRS.  MADRAS  rouses  herself. 
MRS.  MADRAS.     I  wish  to  see  your  father,  Philip. 
PHILIP.     [In  doubt.']    He  won't  be  here  long,  Mother. 
MRS.  MADRAS.     No,  I  am  sure  he  won't. 

With  three  delicate  strides  THOMAS  lands  himself 
onto  the  balcony. 

PHILIP.     Tommy  being  tactful !    Well,  I'll  say  that  you 
want  to  see  him. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     No,  please  don't.    Tell  him  that  I  think 
he  ought  to  come  and  see  me. 
PHILIP.     He  won't  come,  Mother. 
MRS.  MADRAS.     No,  I  know  he  won't.    He  came  to  Eng- 


ACT  i]  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  23 

land  in  May,  didn't  he?    He  was  here  till  July,  wasn't  he? 
Did  he  so  much  as  send  me  a  message? 

PHILIP.     [With  unkind  patience.']     No,  Mother. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     What  was  he  doing  all  the  while,  Philip? 

PHILIP.  I  didn't  see  much  of  him.  I  really  don't  know 
what  he  came  back  for  at  all.  We  could  have  done  this 
business  without  him,  and  anyway  it  hasn't  materialised 
till  now.  This  is  why  he's  passing  through  England  again. 
I  don't  think  there's  much  to  be  gained  by  your  seeing 
him,  you  know. 

MRS.  MADRAS.    You  are  a  little  heartless,  Philip: 
This  being  a  little  true,  PHILIP  a  little  resents  it. 

PHILIP.  My  dear  mother,  you  and  he  have  been  sep- 
arated for  .  .  .  how  long  is  it? 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [With  withered  force.]  I  am  his  wife 
still,  I  should  hope.  He  went  away  from  me  when  he  was 
young.  But  I  have  never  forgotten  my  duty.  And  now 
that  he  is  an  old  man,  and  past  such  sin,  and  I  am  an  old 
woman,  I  am  still  ready  to  be  a  comfort  to  his  declining 
years,  and  it's  right  that  I  should  be  allowed  to  tell  him 
so.  And  you  should  not  let  your  wife  put  you  against 
your  own  mother,  Philip. 

PHILIP.     [Bewildered.]     Really ! 

MRS.  MADRAS.  I  know  what  Jessica  thinks  of  me.  Jes- 
sica is  very  clever,  and  has  no  patience  with  people  who 
can  only  do  their  best  to  be  good  ...  I  understand  that. 
Well,  it  isn't  her  duty  to  love  me  ...  at  least  it  may  not 
be  her  duty  to  love  her  husband's  mother,  or  it  may  be,  I 
don't  say.  But  it  is  your  duty.  I  sometimes  think,  Philip, 
you  don't  love  me  any  longer,  though  you're  afraid  to 
say  so. 

The  appeal  ends  so  pathetically  that  PHILIP  is  very 
gently  equivocal. 

PHILIP.  If  I  didn't  love  you,  my  dear  mother,  I  should 
be  afraid  to  say  so. 


24.  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

MRS.  MADRAS.    When  are  you  to  see  your  father? 

PHILIP.  We've  asked  him  to  dinner  to-morrow  night. 
At  this  moment  EMMA  comes  in  with  a  briskness  so 
jarring  to  MRS.  MADRAS'S  already  wrought  nerves, 
that  she  turns  on  her. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  Emma,  why  do  you  come  bouncing  in 
like  that  when  I'm  trying  to  get  a  private  word  with 
Philip? 

EMMA.  Really,  Aunt  Amy,  the  drawing-room  belongs 
to  everyone. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  I  come  and 
stay  here  at  all.  I  dislike  your  mother  intensely. 

EMMA.  Then  kindly  don't  tell  me  so.  I've  no  wish  not 
to  be  polite  to  you. 

PHILIP.  [Pacifically.']  Emma,  I  think  Uncle  Henry 
ought  to  attend  this  meeting  to-morrow. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [Beginning  to  cry.]  Of  course  he  ought. 
Who  is  he,  to  go  on  like  this  about  Constantine!  My 
handkerchief's  upstairs. 

EMMA.  [Contritely.~\  Shall  I  fetch  it  for  you,  Aunt 
Amy? 

MRS.  MADRAS.     No.    I'll  be  a  trouble  to  no  one. 

She  retires,  injured.     PHILIP  continues,  purposely 
placid. 

PHILIP.     What's  more,  he  really  wants  to  attend  it. 

EMMA.  I'm  sorry  I  was  rude  .  .  .  but  she  does  get  on 
our  nerves,  you  know. 

PHILIP.    Why  do  you  invite  her? 

EMMA.  [Quite  jolly  with  him.']  Oh,  we're  all  very  fond 
of  Aunt  Amy,  and  anyhow,  mother  would  think  it  our 
duty.  I  don't  see  how  she  can  enjoy  coming,  though. 
She  never  goes  out  anywhere  .  .  .  never  joins  in  the  con- 
versation .  .  .  just  sits  nursing  herself. 

PHILIP.     [Quizzically.']    You're  all  too  good,  Emma. 

EMMA.    Yes.    I  heard  you  making  fun  erf  Juira  in  the 


ACT  i]  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  25 

conservatory.  But  if  one  stopped  doing  one's  duty  how 
upside  down  the  world  would  be !  [Her  voice  now  takes 
that  tone  which  is  the  well-bred  substitute  for  a  wink.']  I 
say  ...  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  tell  you  about  Julia,  but 
it  is  rather  a  joke.  You  know,  Julia  gets  hysterical  some- 
times, when  she  has  her  headaches. 

PHILIP.    Does  she? 

EMMA.  Well,  a  collar  marked  Lewis  Waller  came  back 
from  the  wash  in  mistake  for  one  of  father's.  I  don't 
think  he  lives  near  here,  but  it's  one  of  these  big  steam 
laundries.  And  Morgan  the  cook  got  it,  and  she  gave  it 
to  Julia  .  .  .  and  Julia  kept  it.  And  when  mother  found 
out  she  cried  for  a  whole  day.  She  said  it  showed  a  wan- 
ton mind. 

PHILIP'S  mocking  face  becomes  grave. 

PHILIP.    I  don't  think  that's  at  all  amusing,  Emma. 

EMMA.     [In  genuine  surprise.]    Don't  you? 

PHILIP.     How  old  is  Julia? 

EMMA.  She's  thirty-four.  [Her  face  falls,  too.']  No 
...  it  is  rather  dreadful,  isn't  it?  [Then  wrinkling  her 
forehead,  as  at  a  puzzleJ]  It  isn't  exactly  that  one  wants 
to  get  married.  I  daresay  mother  is  right  about  that. 

PHILIP.     About  what? 

EMMA.  Well,  some  time  ago  a  gentleman  proposed  to 
Jane.  And  mother  said  it  would  have  been  more  honour- 
able if  he  had  spoken  to  father  first,  and  that  Jane  was 
the  youngest,  and  too  young  to  know  her  own  mind.  Well, 
you  know,  she's  twenty-six.  And  then  they  heard  of  some- 
thing he'd  once  done,  and  it  was  put  a  stop  to.  And  Jane 
was  very  rebellious,  and  mother  cried.  .  .  . 

PHILIP.     Does  she  always  cry? 

EMMA.  Yes,  she  does  cry,  if  she's  upset  about  us.  And 
I  think  she  was  right.  One  ought  not  to  risk  being  un- 
happy for  life,  ought  one? 

PHILIP.    Are  you  all  happy  now,  then? 


26  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

EMMA.  Oh,  deep  down,  I  think  we  are.  It  would  be 
so  ungrateful  not  to  be.  When  one  has  a  good  home 
and  .  .  .  !  But  of  course  living  together,  and  going  away 
together,  and  being  together  all  the  time,  one  does  get  a 
little  irritable  now  and  then.  I  suppose  that's  why  we 
sit  as  mum  as  maggots  when  people  are  here ;  we're  afraid 
of  squabbling. 

PHILIP.     Do  you  squabble? 

EMMA.  Not  like  we  used.  You  know,  till  we  moved 
into  this  house,  we  had  only  two  bedrooms  between  us, 
the  nursery  and  the  old  night  nursery.  Now  Laura  and 
Minnie  have  one  each,  and  there's  one  we  take  by  turns. 
There  wasn't  a  bigger  house  to  be  got  here,  or  I  suppose 
we  could  have  had  it.  They  hated  the  idea  of  moving  far. 
And  it's  rather  odd,  you  know,  father  seems  afraid  of 
spending  money,  though  he  must  have  got  lots.  He  says 
if  he  gave  u  s  any  more  we  shouldn't  know  what  to  do 
with  it,  ...  and  of  course  that's  true. 

PHILIP.     But  what  occupations  have  you  girls  ? 

EMMA.  We're  always  busy.  I  mean  there's  lots  to  be 
done  about  the  house,  and  there's  calling  and  classes  and 
things.  Julia  used  to  sketch  quite  well.  You  mustn't  think 
I'm  grumbling,  Philip.  I  know  I  talk  too  much.  They  tell 
me  so. 

PHILIP'S  comment  is  the  question,  half  serious. 

PHILIP.  Why  don't  you  go  away,  all  six  of  you,  or  say 
five  of  you? 

EMMA.     [Wide-eyed.']    Go  away ! 

PHILIP.     [Comprehensively.'}     Out  of  it. 

EMMA.     [Wider-eyed.]    Where  to? 

PHILIP.     [With  a  sigh — for  her.]    Ah,  that's  just  it. 

EMMA.     How  could  one!      And  it  would  upset  them 
dreadfully.    Father  and  mother  don't  know  that  one  feels 
like  this  at  times  .  .  .  they'd  be  very  grieved. 
PHILIP  turns  to  her  with  kindly  irony. 


ACT  i]          THE  MADRAS  HOUSE  27 

PHILIP.  Emma,  people  have  been  worrying  your  father 
at  the  shop  lately  about  the  drawbacks  of  the  living  in 
system.  Why  don't  you  ask  him  to  look  at  home  for 
them? 

MR.   HUXTABLE  returns,  at  ease  in  a  jacket.     He 
pats  his  daughter  kindly  on  the  shoulder. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Now  run  along,  Jane  ...  I  mean 
Emma  ...  I  want  a  word  with  your  cousin. 

EMMA.    Yes,  Father. 

EMMA — or    JANE — obediently    disappears.      PHILIP 
then  looks  sideways  at  his  uncle. 

PHILIP.     I've  come  over,  as  you  asked  me  to. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     I  didn't  ask  you. 

PHILIP.     You  dropped  a  hint. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Almost  with  a  blush.]  Did  I?  I 
dessay  I  did. 

PHILIP.  But  you  must  hurry  up  and  decide  about  the 
meeting  to-morrow.  Thomas  and  I  have  got  to  go. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     Phil,  I  suppose  you're  set  on  selling. 

PHILIP.    Quite. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  You  young  men!  The  Madras  Ouse 
means  nothing  to  you. 

PHILIP.    [Anti-sentimental.'}   Nothing  unsaleable,  Uncle. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Well,  well,  well !  [Then,  in  a  furtive 
fuss.]  Well,  just  a  minute,  my  boy,  before  your  aunt 
comes  down  .  .  .  she's  been  going  on  at  me  upstairs, 
y'know !  Something  you  must  do  for  me  to-morrow,  like 
a  good  feller,  at  the  shop  in  the  morning.  [He  suddenly 
becomes  portentous]  Have  you  heard  this  yet  about  Miss 
Yates  ? 

PHILIP.    No. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     Disgraceful !    Disgraceful! 

PHILIP.  She  got  on  very  well  in  Bond  Street  .  .  . 
learnt  a  good  deal.  She  has  only  been  back  a  few  weeks. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     [Snorting  derisively]     Learnt  a  good 


28  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  i 

deal!  [Then  he  sights  THOMAS  on  the  balcony,  and  hails 
him.]  Oh,  come  in,  Major  Thomas.  [And  dropping  his 
•voice  again  ominously.']  Shut  the  window,  if  you  don't 
mind;  we  don't  want  the  ladies  to  hear  this. 

THOMAS  shuts  the  window,  and  MR.  HUXTABLE 
spreads  himself  to  the  awful  enjoyment  of  impart- 
ing scandal. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  I  tell  you,  my  boy,  up  at  your  place, 
got  hold  of  she's  been  by  some  feller  .  .  .  some  West  End 
Club  feller,  I  dessay  .  .  .  and  he's  put  her  in  the  .  .  . 
well,  I  tell  you ! !  Major  Thomas  will  excuse  me.  Not  a 
chit  of  a  girl,  mind  you,  but  first  hand  in  our  Costume 
room.  Buyer  we  were  going  to  make  her,  and  all ! 

PHILIP  frowns,  both  at  the  news  and  at  his  uncle's 
manner  of  giving  it. 

PHILIP.    What  do  you  want  me  to  do? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [More  portentous  than  ever.~\  You 
wait;  that's  not  the  worst  of  it.  You  know  Brigstock. 

PHILIP.     Do  I? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     Oh,  ye* ;  third  man  in  the  Osiery. 

PHILIP.    True. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Well  ...  it  seems  that  more  than  a 
week  ago  Miss  Chancellor  had  caught  them  kissing. 

PHILIP.  [His  impatience  of  the  display  growing.'] 
Caught  who  kissing? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  I  know  it  ain't  clear.  Let's  go  back  to 
the  beginning  .  .  .  Major  Thomas  will  excuse  me. 

THOMAS.     [Showing  the  properest  feeling.]    Not  at  all. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Wednesday  afternoon,  Willoughby, 
that's  our  doctor,  comes  up  as  usual.  Miss  Yates  goes  in 
to  see  him.  Miss  Chancellor — that's  our  housekeeper, 
Major  Thomas — over'ears,  quite  by  accident,  so  she  says, 
and  afterwards  taxes  her  with  it. 

PHILIP.     Unwise. 

MR.    HUXTABLE.      No !    no !      Her   plain   duty  .  .  .  she 


ACT  i]          THE   MADRAS  HOUSE  29 

knows  my  principle  about  such  things.  But  then  she  re- 
members about  the  kissing  and  that  gets  about  among  our 
young  ladies.  Somebody  stupid  there,  I  grant  you,  but 
you  know  what  these  things  are.  And  then  it  gets  about 
about  Miss  Yates  ...  all  over  the  shop.  And  then  it 
turns  out  that  Brigstock's  a  married  man  .  .  .  been  mar- 
ried two  years  .  .  .  secret  from  us,  you  know,  because 
he's  living  in  and  on  promotion  and  all  the  rest.  And 
yesterday  morning  his  wife  turns  up  in  my  office,  and  has 
hysterics,  and  says  her  husband's  been  slandered. 

PHILIP.  I  don't  see  why  Miss  Yates  should  come  to 
any  particular  harm  at  our  place.  A  girl's  only  out  of 
our  sight  at  week  ends,  and  then  we're  supposed  to  know 
where  she  is. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Still  instinctively  spreading  himself, 
but  with  that  wistful  look  creeping  on  him  now.']  Well 
...  I  had  er  up  the  day  before.  And  I  don't  know  what's 
coming  over  me.  I  scolded  her  well.  I  was  in  the  right 
in  all  I  said  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  !  Have  you  ever  suddenly  card 
your  own  voice  saying  a  thing?  Well,  I  did  .  .  .  and  it 
sounded  more  like  a  dog  barking  than  me.  And  I  went 
funny  all  over.  So  I  told  her  to  leave  the  room.  [He 
grows  distressed  and  appealing.']  And  you  must  take  it 
on,  Phil,  ...  it  ought  to  be  settled  to-morrow.  Miss 
Yates  must  have  the  sack,  and  I'm  not  sure  Brigstock 
hadn't  better  have  the  sack.  We  don't  want  to  lose  Miss 
Chancellor,  but  really  if  she  can't  hold  er  tongue  at  her 
age  .  .  .  well,  she'd  better  have  .  .  . 

PHILIP.     [Out  of  patience.']    Oh,  nonsense,  Uncle ! 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [His  old  unquestioning  self  asserted 
for  a  moment.']  No,  I  will  not  have  these  scandals  in  the 
shop.  We've  always  been  free  of  em  .  .  .  almost  always. 
I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  the  girl.  If  the  man's  in  our 
employ,  and  you  can  find  im  out  .  .  .  punish  the  guilty 
as  well  as  the  innocent  .  .  .  I'm  for  all  that.  [That  breath 


80  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

exhausted,  he  continues,  quite  pathetically,  to  THOMAS.] 
But  I  do  not  know  what's  coming  over  me.  Before  I  got 
ill  I'd  have  tackled  this  business  like  winking.  But  when 
you're  a  long  time  in  bed  .  .  .  I'd  never  been  ill  like  that 
before  ...  I  dunno  how  it  is  ...  you  get  thinking  .  .  . 
and  things  which  used  to  be  quite  clear  don't  seem  nearly 
so  clear  .  .  .  and  then  after,  when  you  start  to  do  and 
say  the  things  that  used  to  come  natural  .  .  .  they  don't 
come  so  natural  as  they  did,  and  that  puts  you  off  some- 
thing .  .  . 

This  is  interrupted  by  the  re-appearance  of  MRS. 
HUXTABLE,  lace-capped,  and  ready  for  dinner.  She 
is  at  the  pitch  to  which  the  upstairs  dispute  with 
her  husband  evidently  brought  her.  It  would  seem 
he  bolted  in  the  middle  of  it. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  Is  it  the  fact,  Philip,  that  if  your  uncle 
does  not  attend  the  meeting  to-morrow  that  this  business 
transaction  with  Mr. — I  forget  his  name — the  American 
gentleman  .  .  .  and  which  I,  of  course,  know  nothing 
about,  will  be  seriously  upset? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Joining  battle.']  Kitty,  I  don't  see 
why  I  shouldn't  go.  If  Constantine  chooses  to  turn  up 
.  .  .  that  is  his  business.  I  needn't  speak  directly  to  him 
...  so  to  say. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  [Hurling  this  choice  bolt  from  her 
vocabulary.]  A  quibble,  Henry. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  If  he's  leaving  England  now  for 
good  .  .  . 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     But  you  do  as  you  like,  of  course. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Wistful  again.]  I  should  so  like  you 
to  be  convinced. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  Don't  prevaricate,  Henry.  And  your 
sister  is  just  coming  into  the  room.  We  had  better  drop 
the  subject. 

And  in  MRS.  MADRAS  does  come,  but  what  with  one 


ACT  i]  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  81 

thing  and  another  MR.   HUXTABLE  is  now  getting 
what  he  would  call  thoroughly  put  out. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Now  if  Amelia  here  was  to  propose 
seeing  ira 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     Henry  ...  a  little  consideration ! 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Goaded  to  the  truth.]  Well,  I  want  to 
go,  Kitty,  and  that's  all  about  it.  And  I  dropped  a  int,  I 
did,  to  Phil  to  come  over  and  help  me  through  it  with  you. 
I  thought  he'd  make  it  seem  as  if  it  was  most  pressing 
business  .  .  .  only  he  hasn't  ...  so  as  to  hurt  your  feel- 
ings less.  Because  I'd  been  bound  to  have  told  you  after- 
wards, or  it  might  have  slipped  out  somehow.  Goodness 
gracious  me,  here's  the  Madras  House,  which  I've  sunk 
enough  money  in  these  last  ten  years  to  build  a  battleship, 
very  nearly  ...  a  small  battleship,  y'know  .  .  .  it's  to  be 
sold  because  Phil  won't  stand  by  me,  and  his  father  don't 
care  a  button  now.  Not  but  what  that's  Constantine  all 
over!  Marries  you,  Amelia,  behaves  like  a  duke  and  an 
archangel,  mixed,  for  eighteen  months,  and  then 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  [Scandalized,  "Before  visitors,  too!"] 
Henry! 

MR.  HUXTABLE.    All  right,  all  right.     And  I'm  not  to 
attend  this  meeting,  if  you  please! 
The  little  storm  subsides. 

MRS.  MADRAS.      It's  to  be  Sold,  is  it? 

PHILIP.    Yes,  Mother. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [At  her  brother.]  It  was  started  with 
my  money  as  well  as  yours. 

MR.  HUXTABLE  is  recovering,  and  takes  no  notice. 
PHILIP.    Yes,  Mother,  we  know. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  And  if  that's  all  you've  lost  by  Constan- 
tine, I  don't  see  you've  a  right  to  be  so  bitter  against  him. 

She  is  still  ignored.     MR.  HUXTABLE,  quite  cheery 

again,  goes  on  affably. 
MR.    HUXTABLE.     D'you    know,    Major    Thomas,    that 


32  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

twenty  years  ago,  when  that  shop  began  to  be  the  talk  of 
London,  Duchesses  have  been  known  to  go,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  on  their  knees  to  him  to  design  them  a  dress. 
Wouldn't  do  it  unless  he  pleased — not  unless  he  approved 
their  figure.  Ad  Society  under  his  thumb. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  [From  the  height  of  respectability.'] 
No  doubt  he  knew  his  business. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [In  an  ecstasy, .]  Knew  his  business ! 
Knew  his  business ! !  My  boy,  in  the  old  days  .  .  .  asked 
everywhere,  like  one  of  themselves,  very  nearly !  First 
of  his  sort  to  break  that  barrier.  D'you  know,  it's  my 
belief  that  if  Mrs.  Gladstone  had  been  thirty  years  young- 
er, and  a  fashionable  woman  ...  he  could  have  had  a 
knighthood. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  [Explicitly.'}  He  was  untrue  to  his 
wife,  Henry. 

At  this  MR.  HUXTABLE  is  the  moral  man  again. 
These  sudden  changes  are  so  like  him.  They  are 
genuine;  he  is  just  half  conscious  of  their  sud- 
denness. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Yes,  I  know,  and  Amy  did  what  she 
should  have  done.  You  see,  it  wasn't  an  ordinary  case, 
Major  Thomas.  It  was  girls  in  the  shop.  And  even 
though  he  took  em  out  of  the  shop  .  .  .  that's  a  slur  on 
the  whole  trade.  A  man  in  his  position  .  .  .  you  can't 
overlook  that. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [Palely  asserting  herself."]  I  could  have 
overlooked  it  if  I  had  chosen. 

PHILIP.  [To  whom  this  is  all  so  futile  and  foolish.'] 
My  dear  mother,  you  were  unhappy  with  my  father,  and 
you  left  him  .  .  .  the  matter  is  very  simple. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Philip  ...  I  was 
not  unhappy  with  him. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  Amy,  how  could  you  be  happy  with  a 
man  who  was  unfaithful  to  you?  What  nonsense! 


ACT  i]       THE  MADRAS  HOUSE  33 

JANE  and  JULIA,  from  the  balcony,  finding  the  win- 
dow locked,  tap  with  their  finger-nails  upon  the 
pane.  The  very  sharpness  of  the  sound  begins  to 
put  out  MR.  HUXTABLE  again. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  No,  no !  They  can't  come  in!  [He 
mouths  at  them  through  the  window.]  You  can't  come  in. 

JANE  mouths  back. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  What?  [Then  the  sense  of  it  coming 
to  him,  he  looks  at  his  watch.']  No,  it  isn't  .  .  .  two  min- 
utes yet. 

And  he  turns  away,  having  excluded  the  innocent 
mind  from  this  unseemly  discussion.  But  at  the 
very  moment  LAURA  comes  in  by  the  door.  His  pa- 
tience flies. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     Oh,  damn !  Well,  I  beg  pardon.   [Then 
in    desperate    politeness.']      Let    me    introduce  .  .  .  my 
daughter  Laura  .  .  .  Major  Thomas. 
LAURA.     [Collectedly.']     We  have  met,  Father. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.     [Giving  it  all  up.]    Well  .  .  .  how  can 
I  tell  .  .  .  there  are  so  many  of  you ! 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  [Severely.]  I  think,  Henry,  you  had 
better  go  to  this  meeting  to-morrow. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Wistful  for  a  moment.]  You  think  I 
ought  ? 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.  You  know  you  ought  not. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Disputing  it  manfully.]  No  ...  I 
don't  know  I  ought  not.  It  isn't  so  easy  to  know  what 
ought  and  ought  not  to  be  done  as  you  always  make  out, 
Kitty.  And  suppose  I  just  do  something  wrong  for  once, 
and  see  what  happens. 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     Henry,  don't  say  such  things. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     [Very  reasonably  to  Major  Thomas.] 

Well,  since  I've  been  ill 

But  EMMA  and  MINNIE  have  come  in  now,  and  JANE 
and  JULIA,  finding  their  exile  a  little  unreasonable, 


34  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

rattle  hard  at  the  window.  MR.  HUXTABLE  gives  it 
all  up  again. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Oh,  let  em  in,  Phil  .  .  .  there's  a  good 
feller. 

THOMAS.    Allow  me.    [And  he  does  so.] 

EMMA.     [Crisply.]    Oh!  what's  it  all  been  about? 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     Never  mind,  Emma. 

She  says  this  to  EMMA  as  she  would  have  said  it  to 
her  at  the  age  of  four.  Meanwhile,  MR.  HUXTABLE 
has  recovered. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  You  know,  Major  Thomas,  Constan- 
tine  could  always  get  the  better  of  me  in  little  things. 

JANE  has  sighted  MINNIE,  and  callously,  across  the 
breadth  of  the  room,  imparts  a  tragedy. 

JANE.  Minnie,  your  frog's  dead  ...  in  the  conserva- 
tory. 

MINNIE  pales. 

MINNIE.    Oh,  dear! 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  .  .  .  After  the  difference  I  began  to 
write  to  him  as  Dear  Sir;  to  this  day  he'll  send  me  busi- 
ness letters  beginning  Dear  Arry. 

MINNIE  is  hurrying  to  the  glass  house  of  death. 

JANE.    I  buried  it. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.    .  .  .  Always  at  his  ease,  you  know. 
THOMAS  escapes  from  him.    PHILIP  is  bending  over 
his  mother  a  little  kindlier. 

PHILIP.  I'll  try  to  see  you  again  before  you  go  back  to 
Bognor,  Mother. 

At  this  moment  the  gong  rings.  A  tremendous  gong, 
beloved  of  the  English  middle  class,  which  makes 
any  house  seem  small.  A  hollow  sound;  the  dinner 
hour  striking  its  own  empty  stomach.  JANE,  whose 
things  are  not  taken  off,  gives  a  mitigated  yelp  and 
dashes  for  the  door,  dashes  into  the  returning,  tidy 
CLARA.  MRS.  HUXTABLE  shakes  a  finger. 


ACT  i]  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  35 

MRS.  HUXTABLE.     Late  again,  Jane. 
PHILIP.     We'll  be  off,  Aunt  Katherine. 
MRS.  HUXTABLE.    [With  a  common  humanity  she  has  not 
shewn  before.]    Philip  .  .  .  never  think  I  mean  to  be  self- 
righteous  about  your  father.     But  he  made  your  mother 
most  unhappy  when  you  were  too  young  to  know  of  it  ... 
and  there  is  the  example  to  others,  isn't  there? 

PHILIP.     Yes  ...  of  course,  Aunt  Kate.     I  know  just 
how  you  feel  about  it  ...  I'm  not  fond  of  him,  either. 

PHILIP  must  be  a  little  mischievous  with  his  aunt. 
She  responds  by  returning  at  once  to  her  own  ap- 
parent self  again. 

MRS.    HUXTABLE.     My    dear    boy  .  .  .  and    your    own 
father ! 

From  the  balcony  one  hears  the  tag  of  JULIA'S  en- 
tertaining of  MAJOR  THOMAS.  They  have  been  peer- 
ing at  the  horizon. 

JULIA.     Yes,  it  means   rain  .  .  .  when  you   see  it  so 
clearly. 

A  general-post  of  leave-taking  now  begins. 
PHILIP.     Well,  see  you  to-morrow,  Uncle  Henry. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.    Yes,  I  suppose  so.    Oh,  and  about  that 
other  matter.  .  .  . 
PHILIP.     What  can  I  do? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.    I'll  telephone  you  in  the  morning. 
PHILIP.  Good-bye,  Mother. 
THOMAS.     Good-bye,  Mrs.  Huxtable. 
MRS.  HUXTABLE.     [With  a  final  flourish  of  politeness.] 
You  have  excused  this  domestic  discussion,  I  hope,  Major 
Thomas  ...  it  will  happen  sometimes. 
THOMAS.    I've  been  most  interested. 

MINNIE  comes  back  sadly  from  the  frog's  grave. 
PHILIP.     Good-bye,  Clara. 
CLARA.    Good-bye,  Philip. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.     You  really  won't  stay  to  dinner? 


36  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  [ACT  i 

PHILIP.     Good-bye,  Laura. 

THOMAS.     Thanks,  no.     We  meet  to-morrow. 

The  general-post  quickens,  the  chorus  grows  con- 
fused. 

LAURA.     Good-bye. 

THOMAS.    Good-bye. 

JANE.     Good-bye. 

THOMAS.     Good-bye. 

PHILIP.     Good-bye,  Emma — oh,  pardon. 

There  has  been  the  confusion  of  crossed  hands. 
Apologies,  withdrawals,  a  treading  on  toes,  more 
apologies. 

EMMA.     Good-bye,  Major  Thomas. 

PHILIP.    Now  good-bye,  Emma. 

THOMAS.     Good-bye,  Mrs.  Madras. 

PHILIP.     Good-bye. 

THOMAS.    Good-bye. 

The  chorus  and  the  general-post  continue,  until  at 
last  PHILIP  and  THOMAS  escape  to  a  tram  and  a  tube 
and  their  lunch,  while  the  HUXTABLES  sit  down  in 
all  ceremony  to  Sunday  dinner:  Roast  beef,  horse- 
radish, Yorkshire  pudding,  brown  potatoes,  Brussels 
sprouts,  apple  tart,  custard  and  cream,  Stilton 
cheese,  dessert. 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE       .          37 


ACT  II 

The  business  offices  of  Roberts  and  Huxtable  are  tucked 
away  upon  the  first  floor  somewhere  at  the  back  of 
that  large  drapery  establishment.  The  waiting-room 
— the  one  in  which  employee  sits  in  shivering  prep- 
aration for  interviews  with  employer — besides  thus 
having  been  the  silent  scene  of  more  misery  than 
most  places  on  earth,  is  one  of  the  very  ugliest 
rooms  that  ever  entered  into  the  mind  of  a  builder 
and  decorator.  Four  plain  walls  of  brick  or  plaster, 
with  seats  round  them,  would  have  left  it  a  waiting- 
room  pure  and  simple.  But  the  ugly  hand  of  the 
money  maker  was  upon  it.  In  the  person  of  a  con- 
tractor he  thrust  upon  the  unfortunate  room — as  on 
all  the  others — everything  that  could  excuse  his 
price  and  disguise  his  profit.  The  walls,  to  start 
with,  were  distempered  an  unobjectionable  green, 
but  as  that  might  seem  too  plain  and  cheap,  a  dado 
of  a  nice  stone  colour  was  added,  topped  with  sten- 
cilling in  dirty  red  of  a  pattern  that  once  was  Greek. 

The  fireplace  is  apparently  designed  to  provide  the  maxi- 
mum amount  of  work  possible  for  the  wretched  boy 
who  cleans  it  every  morning,  retiring  from  the  con- 
test well  black-leaded  himself.  The  mantelpiece 
above — only  an  expert  in  such  abominations  knows 
what  it  is  made  of;  but  it  pretends,  with  the  aid  of 
worm-shaped  dashes  of  paint,  to  be  brown  marble. 


38  THE   MADRAS    HOUSE          [ACT  u 

It  is  too  high  for  comfort,  too  low  for  dignity.  It 
has  to  be  dusted,  and  usually  isn't. 

The  square  lines  of  the  two  long  windows,  which  look 
upon  some  sanitary  brick  airshaft,  have  been  care- 
fully spoilt  by  the  availing  of  their  top  panes.  The 
half  glazed  door,  that  opens  from  the  passage,  is  of 
the  wrong  shape;  the  green  baize  door,  that  admits 
to  MR.  PHILIP'S  room,  is  of  the  wrong  colour. 

And  then  the  furnishing!  Those  yellow  chairs  upholstered 
in  red  cotton  goose-flesh  plush;  that  plush-seated, 
plush-backed  bench,  placed  draughtily  between  the 
windows!  There  is  a  reasonable  office  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  On  the  walls  are,  firstly,  pho- 
tographs Of  ROBERTS  and  HUXTABLE.  ROBERTS  WOS  a 

Welshman,  and  looks  it.  No  prosperous  drapery 
business  in  London  but  has  its  Welshman.  There  is 
also  a  photograph  of  the  premises — actual;  and  an 
advertisement  sketch  of  them — ideal.  There  is  a 
ten-year-old  fashion  plate:  twenty  faultless  ladies 
engaged  in  ladylike  occupations  or  serene  in  the 
lack  of  any.  There  is  an  insurance  almanac,  the 
one  thing  of  beauty  in  the  room.  On  the  mantel- 
piece lies  a  London  Directory,  the  one  piece  of  true 
colour. 

The  hand  of  the  money  maker  that  has  wrenched  awry 
the  Greek  pattern  on  the  wall  has  been  laid  also  on 
all  the  four  people  who  sit  waiting  for  MR.  PHILIP 
at  noon  on  this  Monday;  and  to  the  warping  more 
or  less  of  them  all. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK,  sitting  stiffly  on  the  plush  bench,  in  brown 
quilled  hat  and  coat  and  skirt,  is,  one  would  guess, 
a  clerk  of  some  sort.  She  lacks  colour;  she  lacks 
repose;  she  lacks — one  stops  to  consider  that  she 
might  possibly  be  a  beautiful  woman  were  it  not 
for  the  things  she  lacks.  But  she  is  the  product  of 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  39 

fifteen  years  or  so  of  long  hours  and  little  lunch. 
Certainly  at  this  moment  she  is  not  seen  at  her  best. 
She  sits  twisting  her  gloved  hands,  pulling  at  a  loose 
thread,  now  and  then  biting  it.  Otherwise  she  bites 
her  lips;  her  face  is  drawn,  and  she  stares  in  front 
of  her  with  only  a  twist  of  the  eye  now  and  then 
towards  her  husband,  who  is  uncomfortable  upon  a 
chair  a  few  feet  away. 

If  one  were  asked  to  size  up  MR.  BRIGSTOCK,  one  would 
say:  Nothing  against  him.  The  position  of  Third 
Man  in  the  Hosiery  does  not  require  any  special 
talents,  and  it  doesn't  get  them;  or  if  it  does,  they 
don't  stay  there.  And  MR.  BRIGSTOCK  stays  there — 
just  stays  there.  It  sums  him  up — sums  up  millions 
of  him — to  say  that  in  their  youth  they  have  energy 
enough  to  get  into  a  position;  afterwards,  in  their 
terror — or  sometimes  only  because  their  employers 
have  not  the  heart  to  dismiss  them — they  stay  there. 
Sometimes,  though,  the  employers  have  the  heart, 
and  do.  And  then  what  happens?  Considered  as  a 
man  rather  than  a  wage  earner — not  that  it  is  usual 
for  us  so  to  consider  him — he  is  one  of  those  who, 
happily  for  themselves,  get  married  by  women 
whom  apparently  no  other  man  much  wants  to 
marry.  Subdued  to  what  he  works  in,  he  is  dressed 
as  a  Third  Man  in  the  Hosiery  should  be.  He  is,  at 
the  moment,  as  agitated  as  his  wife,  and  as  he  has 
no  nervous  force  to  be  agitated  with,  is  in  a  state 
of  greater  wretchedness. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  room  sits  MISS  CHANCELLOR. 
Every  large  living-in  draper's  should  have  as  house- 
keeper a  lady  of  a  certain  age,  who  can  embody  in 
her  own  person  the  virtues  she  will  expect  in  the 
young  ladies  under  her.  Decorum,  sobriety  of 
thought,  tidiness,  respect  of  persons — these  are  the 


40  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  n 

qualities  generally  necessary  to  a  shop-assistant's 
salvation.  MISS  CHANCELLOR  radiates  them.  They 
arc  genuine  in  her,  too.  She  is  now  planted  square- 
ly on  her  chair,  as  it  might  be,  in  easy  authority, 
but  looking  closely,  one  may  see  that  it  is  a  digni- 
fied resentment  keeping  her  there  immovable. 
In  the  middle  of  the  room,  by  the  table,  sits  MISS  YATES. 
While  they  wait  this  long  time  the  other  three  try 
hard  to  keep  their  eyes  off  her.  It  isn't  easy;  partly 
because  she  is  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  they 
are  not.  But  anyhow  and  anywhere  MISS  YATES  is  a 
person  that  you  look  at,  though  you  may  ignorantly 
wonder  why.  She  is  by  no  means  pretty,  nor  does 
she  try  to  attract  you.  But  you  look  at  her  as  you 
look  at  a  fire  or  a  light  in  an  otherwise  empty  room. 
She  is  not  a  lady,  nor  is  she  well  educated,  and  ten 
years'  shop-assisting  has  left  its  marks  on  her.  But 
there  it  is.  To  the  seeing  eye  she  glows  in  that 
room  like  a  live  coal.  She  has  genius — she  has  life, 
to  however  low  a  use  she — or  the  world  for  her — 
may  put  it.  And  commoner  people  are  lustreless 
beside  her. 

They  wait  silently,  and  the  tension  increases.    At  last  it  is 
slightly  relieved  by  PHILIP'S  arrival.    He  comes  in 
briskly,  his  hat  on,  a  number  of  unopened  letters 
in  his  hand.    They  get  up  to  receive  him  with  vary- 
ing degrees  of  respect  and  apprehension. 
PHILIP.     Good  morning,  Miss  Chancellor.    Good  morn- 
ing, Miss  Yates.    Good  morning,  Mr.  Brigstock. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  [Introducing  her.]  Mrs.  Brigstock. 
PHILIP  nods  pleasantly  to  MRS.  BRIGSTOCK,  who 
purses  her  lips  in  a  half-frightened,  half-vengeful 
way,  and  sits  down  again.  Then  he  puts  his  hat  on 
the  mantelpiece  and  settles  himself  in  the  master 
position  at  the  table. 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  41 

PHILIP.     I'm  afraid  I've  kept  you  waiting  a  little.    Well, 

now 

There  is  a  sharp  knock  at  the  door. 

PHILIP.    Come. 

It  is  BELHAVEN.  BELHAVEN  is  seventeen,  'perhaps, 
on  the  climb  from  office  boy  to  clerk,  of  the  usual 
'pattern.  PHILIP  greets  him  pleasantly. 

PHILIP.    Oh,  good  morning,  Belhaven. 

BELHAVEN.  I've  put  Major  Thomas  in  your  room,  sir, 
as  the  papers  were  there,  but  Mr.  Huxtable's  is  empty,  if 
you'd  like  .  .  . 

PHILIP.     No,  this'll  do. 

BELHAVEN.  Major  Thomas  said  would  you  speak  to  him 
for  a  minute,  as  soon  as  you  came. 

PHILIP.    I'll  go  in  now. 

BELHAVEN.    Thank  you,  sir. 

PHILIP.  [To  the  waiting  four.]  Excuse  me  one  minute, 
please. 

BELHAVEN  bolts  back  to  his  outer  office  by  one  door 
— his  way  of  opening  and  getting  through  it  is  a 
labour-saving  invention;  and  PHILIP  goes  to  find 
THOMAS  through  the  other.  There  is  silence  again, 
held  by  these  four  at  a  greater  tension  than  ever. 
At  last  MRS.  BRIGSTOCK,  least  able  to  bear  it,  gives 
one  desperate  wriggle-fidget.  BRIGSTOCK  looks  at 
her  deprecatingly  and  says  .  .  . 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  Will  you  sit  here,  Freda,  if  you  feel 
the  draught? 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  [Just  trusting  herself  to  answer.~\  No, 
thank  you. 

Silence  again,  but  soon  broken  by  PHILIP,  who 
comes  from  the  other  room,  throwing  over  his 
shoulder  the  last  of  his  few  words  with  THOMAS, 
"All  right,  Tommy."  TOMMY/rzvn  at  the  dullest 
business,  always  pleasantly  amuses  him.  Then  he 


42  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  n 

settles  himself  at  the  table  for  the  second  time, 
conciliatory,  kind. 
PHILIP.    Well,  now  .  .  . 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK,  determined  to  be  first  heard,  lets 
slip  the  torrent  of  her  wrath. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     It's  slander,  Mr.  Madras,  and  I   re- 
quest that  it  shall  be  retracted  immediately  .  .  .  before 
everybody  ...  in  the  public  press  ...  by  advertisement. 
MR.  BRIGSTOCK.     [/«  an  agonised  whisper.']     Oh,  Freda 
,  .  .  not  so  eadstrong. 

PHILIP  is  elaborately  cool  and  good  tempered. 
PHILIP.     Miss  Chancellor. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR  is  even  more  elaborately  cold  and 
dignified. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.      Yes,  sir. 

PHILIP.  I  think  we  might  inform  Mrs.  Brigstock  that 
we're  sorry  the  accusation  has  become  so  public  ...  it 
has  naturally  caused  her  some  pain. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  [Ascending  the  scale.]  I  don't  believe 
it  ...  I  didn't  believe  it  ...  if  I'd  have  believed  it 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.     [Interposing.']     Oh,  Freda ! 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  [Very  definitely.']  I  saw  them  kiss- 
ing. I  didn't  know  Mr.  Brigstock  was  a  married  man. 
And  even  if  I  had  known  it  ...  I  saw  them  kissing. 

MISS  YATES,  opening  her  mouth  for  the  first  time, 
shows  an  easy  impatience  of  their  anger  and  their 
attitudes,  too. 

MISS  YATES.     Oh  .  .  .  what  sort  of  a  kiss? 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  Are  there  different  sorts  of  kisses, 
Miss  Yates? 

MISS  YATES.    Well  .  .  .  aren't  there? 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  [Growing  shrill  now."]  He  owns  he  did 
that,  and  he  knows  he  shouldn't  have,  and  he  asked  my 
pardon  .  .  .  and  whose  business  is  it,  but  mine  .  .  .  ? 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  43 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  [Vainly  interposing  this  time.]  Oh, 
Freda ! 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  [Climbing  to  hysterics.]  Hussy  to  let 
him  .  .  .  hussy  .  .  .  hussy ! 

PHILIP  adds  a  little  severity  to  his  coolness. 

PHILIP.    Mrs.  Brigstock. 

MISS  YATES.  [As  pleasant  as  possible.]  All  right  .  .  . 
Mr.  Madras,  I  don't  mind. 

PHILIP.  But  I  do.  Mrs.  Brigstock,  I  shall  not  attempt 
to  clear  up  this  business  unless  we  can  all  manage  to  keep 
our  tempers. 

MISS  YATES  collectedly  explains. 

MISS  YATES.  I've  been  friends  with  Mr.  Brigstock  these 
twelve  years.  We  both  came  into  the  firm  together  .  .  . 
and  I  knew  he  was  married  .  .  .  p'raps  I'm  the  only  one 
that  did.  And  when  I  told  him  ...  all  I  chose  to  tell  him 
as  to  what  had  happened  to  me  ...  I  asked  him  to  kiss 
me  just  to  show  he  didn't  think  so  much  the  worse  of  me. 
And  he  gave  me  one  kiss  .  .  .  here.  [She  dabs  with  one 
finger  the  left  top  corner  of  her  forehead.]  And  that  is 
the  truth  of  that. 

PHILIP.  You  might  have  given  this  explanation  to  Miss 
Chancellor. 

MISS  YATES.     She  wouldn't  have  believed  it. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.     I  don't  believe  it. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  [With  gathering  force.]  William! 
William ! !  William ! ! ! 

BRIGSTOCK  desperately  musters  a  little  authority. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  Freda,  be  quiet  .  .  .  haven't  I  sworn  it 
to  you  on  the  Bible? 

MISS  CHANCELLOR  now  puts  her  case. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  I  may  say  I  have  known  other  young 
ladies  in  trouble  and  whether  they  behaved  properly  or  im- 
properly under  the  circumstances  .  .  .  and  I've  known 


44  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  11 

them  behave  both  .  .  .  they  did  not  confide  in  their  gentle- 
men friends  .  .  .  without  the  best  of  reasons. 

PHILIP.  There  is  no  reason  that  they  shouldn't,  Miss 
Chancellor. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.     They  didn't. 

MISS  YATES.     Well  ...  I  did. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  I  had  no  wish  for  the  scandal  to  get 
about.  I  don't  know  how  it  happened. 

MISS  YATES.  Ask  your  little  favourite,  Miss  Jordan, 
how  it  happened. 

This  shot  tells.    MISS  CHANCELLOR'S  voice  sharpens. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  Mr.  Madras,  if  I  am  to  be  accused 
of  favouritism 

PHILIP.     Yes,  yes  .  .  .  we'll  keep  to  the  point,  I  think. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  If  Mr.  Brigstock  wasn't  the  man 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     [The  spring  touched.]    William! 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  Why  shouldn't  she  tell  me  who  it 
was? 

MISS  YATES.     Why  should  I? 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  Am  I  here  to  look  after  the  morals 
of  these  young  ladies,  or  am  I  not? 

MRS.   BRIGSTOCK.      A   SCt  of  hussies. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  [7n  agony.']  Freda,  you'll  get  me  the 
sack. 

PHILIP.  Brigstock,  if  I  wished  to  give  any  one  the  sack, 
I  should  not  be  taking  the  trouble  to  discuss  this  with 
you  all  in — I  hope — a  reasonable  way. 

MRS.    BRIGSTOCK,    much    resenting    reasonableness, 
stands  up  now  to  give  battle. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  Oh,  give  him  the  sack,  if  you  please, 
Mr.  Madras.  It's  time  he  had  it  for  his  own  sake. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.    No,  Freda ! 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  You've  got  your  way  to  make  in  the 
world,  haven't  you?  He's  got  to  start  on  his  own  like 
other  people,  hasn't  he? 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS,  HOUSE!       ,         45 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  [Feeling  safety^and  his  situation  slip- 
ping.] In  time,  Freda. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  Now's  the  time.  If  you're  not  sick  of 
the  life  you  lead  .  .  .  seeing  me  once  a  week  for  an  hour 
or  two  .  .  .  then  I  am.  And  this  libel  and  slander  makes 
about  the  last  straw,  I  should  think. 

PHILIP.  How  long  have  you  been  married,  Mrs.  Brig- 
stock  ? 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.    Four  years. 

PHILIP.    Four  years ! 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  [A  little  quelled  by  his  equable  cour- 
tesy.] Four  years ! 

PHILIP.  [7n  amazed  impatience.']  My  dear  Brigstock, 
why  not  have  come  to  the  firm  and  told  them?  It  could 
have  been  arranged  for  you  to  live  out  with  your  wife. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  Well,  I  have  been  thinking  of  it  lately, 
sir,  but  I  never  seem  to  happen  on  a  really  likely  moment. 
I'm  afraid  I'm  not  a  favourite  in  my  department. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     No  fault  of  his ! 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  And  it's  sometimes  a  very  little  thing 
makes  the  difference  between  a  feller's  going  and  staying 
.  .  .  when  all  those  that  aren't  wanted  are  cleared  out 
after  sale  time,  I  mean,  for  instance.  And,  of  course,  the 
thirty  pound  a  year  they  allow  you  to  live  out  on  does  not 
keep  you  .  .  .  it's  no  use  my  saying  it  does.  And  when 
you're  married  .  .  . 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  [Who  has  gathered  her  grievances 
again.]  I  agreed  to  it.  I  have  my  profession,  too.  We've 
been  saving  quicker.  It's  three  hundred  pounds  now,  all 
but  a  bit  ...  that's  enough  to  start  on.  I've  got  my  eye 
on  the  premises.  It's  near  here,  I  don't  mind  telling  you. 
Why  shouldn't  we  do  as  well  as  others  .  .  .  and  ride  in 
our  carriages  when  we're  fifty ! 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  [Deprecating  such  great  optimism.] 
Well,  I've  asked  advice  . 


46  THE   MADRAS    HOUSE          [ACT  n 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  You  think  too  much  of  advice.  If 
you'd  value  yourself  higher !  Give  him  the  sack,  if  you 
please,  Mr.  Madras,  and  I'll  say  thank  you. 

She  finishes,  and  suddenly  MISS  YATES  takes  up  this 
part  of  the  tale  quite  otherwise. 

MISS  YATES.  He  has  asked  my  advice,  and  I've  told  him 
to  stay  where  he  is. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     [Her  breath  leaving  her.']   Oh,  indeed  ! 

MISS  YATES.  He's  as  steady  as  can  be.  But  his  appear- 
ance is  against  him. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     [Hardly  recovering  it.'}  Well,  I  never ! 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  A  feller  does  think  of  the  future, 
Marion. 

MISS  YATES.  I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you.  I  don't  know 
where  we  all  get  to  when  we're  fifty,  and  I've  never  met 
anyone  who  did.  We're  not  in  the  shop  any  longer,  most 
of  us,  are  we?  And  we're  not  all  in  our  carriages. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.     [Meekly.']    I  suppose  it  can  be  done. 

MISS  YATES.  Oh  .  .  .  premises  near  here  and  three 
hundred  pounds.  Perfect  foolery,  and  William  ought  to 
know  it  is.  This  firm'll  undersell  you  and  eat  you  up  and 
a  dozen  more  like  you  .  .  .  and  the  place  that's  trusted 
you  for  your  stock  will  sell  up  every  stick,  and  there  you'll 
be  in  the  gutter.  I  advised  him  to  own  up  to  you  [she 
nods  at  MRS.  BRIGSTOCK]  and  live  out  and  do  the  best  he 
could. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  [More  drenched  with  the  cold  water 
than  she'll  own.']  I'm  much  obliged,  I'm  sure  .  .  .  I've 
my  own  opinion.  .  .  . 

PHILIP.     [Who  has  been  studying  her  rather  anxiously.'] 
You've  no  children,  Mrs.  Brigstock? 
MRS.  BRIGSTOCK  goes  white. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  No,  I've  no  children.  How  can  you 
save  when  you  have  children?  But  if  it  was  his  child  this 
hussy  was  going  to  have,  and  I  thought  God  wouldn't 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  47 

strike  him  dead  on  the  spot,  I'd  do  it  myself,  so  I  would 
.  .  .  and  he  knows  I  would. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.     Haven't  I  taken  my  oath  to  you,  Freda? 
MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     How  can  I  tell  if  he's  speaking  the 
truth  ...  I  ask  you  how  can  I  tell  ?    I  lie  awake  at  night 
away  from  him  till  I  could  scream  with  thinking  about  it. 
And  I  do  scream  as  loud  as  I  dare  .  .  .  not  to  wake  the 
house.    And  if  somebody  don't  open  that  window,  I  shall 
go  off. 
PHILIP.     Open  the  window,  please,  Mr.  Brigstock. 

PHILIP'S  voice  is  serious,  though  he  says  but  a  sim- 
ple thing.  MR.  BRIGSTOCK  opens  the  window  as  a 
man  may  do  in  a  sick  room,  helpless,  a  little  dazed. 
Then  he  turns  back  to  his  wife,  who  is  sitting,  head 
tilted  against  the  sharp  back  of  the  plush  bench, 
eyes  shut,  mouth  open.  Only  MISS  YATES  is  ready 
with  her  bit  of  practical  comfort. 

MISS  YATES.  Look  here,  don't  you  worry.  I  could  have 
married  William  if  I'd  wanted  to.  That  ought  to  be  proof 
enough. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.    There  you  are,  Freda. 
MISS  YATES.     Before  he  knew  you. 
MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     [Opening  her  eyes.']    Did  you  ask  her? 
MISS  YATES.     No,  he  never  asked  me  .  .  .  but  you  know 
what  I  mean. 

MISS  YATES  gives  emphasis  to  this  with  what  one 
fears  must  be  described  as  a  wink.  MRS.  BRIGSTOCK 
looks  at  the  acquiescent  BRIGSTOCK  and  acknowl- 
edges the  implication. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  Yes,  I  know.  Oh,  I  don't  believe  it 
really. 

Comforted,  she  discovers  her  handkerchief  and 
blows  her  nose,  after  which  MISS  CHANCELLOR,  who 
has  been  sitting  all  this  while  still,  silent,  and  scorn- 
ful, inquires  in  her  politest  voice. 


48  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  H 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  Do  you  wish  me  still  to  remain, 
Mr.  Madras? 

PHILIP.     One  moment. 

MISS  YATES.  Oh,  you'll  excuse  my  back,  sir.  [And  she 
turns  to  the  table  again.'] 

PHILIP.  I  don't  think  I  need  detain  you  any  longer,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Brigstock.  Your  character  is  now  quite  clear 
in  the  firm's  eyes,  Brigstock,  and  I  shall  see  that  arrange- 
ments are  made  for  you  to  live  out  in  the  future.  I  apolo- 
gise to  you  both  for  all  this  unpleasantness. 

They  have  both  risen  at  this,  and  now  BRIGSTOCK 
begins,  hesitatingly. 

MR..  BRIGSTOCK.  Well  .  .  .  thank  you  ...  sir  ... 
and  .  .  . 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.    No,  William. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  All  right,  Freda!  [He  struggles  into 
his  prepared  speech.]  We  are  very  much  obliged  to  you, 
sir,  but  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  remain  with  the  firm  unless 
there  has  been,  with  regard  to  the  accusation,  some  defi- 
nite retraction. 

PHILIP.  [Near  the  end  of  his  patience.]  My  good  man, 
it  is  retracted. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.      Publicly. 

PHILIP.     Nonsense,  Mrs.  Brigstock. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  [Quite  herself  again.']  Is  it  indeed 
.  .  .  how  would  you  like  it?  [Then  becoming  self-con- 
scious.] Well,  I  beg  pardon.  I'm  sure  we're  very  sorry 
for  Miss  Yates,  and  I  wish  she  were  married. 

MISS  YATES.     [With  some  gusto.]     So  do  I! 
Suddenly  MISS  CHANCELLOR  bursts  out. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  Then  you  wicked  girl,  why  didn't 
you  say  so  before  .  .  .  when  I  wished  to  be  kind  to  you? 
And  we  shouldn't  all  be  talking  in  this  outrageous,  inde- 
cent way.  I  never  did  in  all  my  life.  I  don't  know  how  I 
manage  to  sit  here.  Didn't  I  try  to  be  kind  to  youZ! 


ACT  n]         THE  MADRAS  HOUSE  49 

MISS  YATES.  [Unconquerable.]  Yes,  and  you  tried  to 
cry  over  me.  No,  I  don't  wish  I  were  married. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.  Of  course  it's  not  for  me  to  say, 
Marion,  but  will  the  way  you're  going  on  now  stop  the 
other  young  ladies  tattling? 

The  tone  of  the  dispute  now  sharpens  rather  dan- 
gerously. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  How's  Mr.  Brigstock  to  remain  in  the 
firm  if  Miss  Chancellor  does? 

PHILIP.    That  is  my  business,  Mrs.  Brigstock. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  What  .  .  .  when  I  saw  him  kissing 
her  .  .  .  kissing  her ! 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.    William! 

PHILIP.    That  has  been  explained. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  No,  Mr.  Madras,  while  I'm  house- 
keeper here  I  will  not  countenance  loose  behaviour.  I 
don't  believe  one  word  of  these  excuses. 

PHILIP.    This  is  just  obstinacy,  Miss  Chancellor. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  And  personally  I  wish  to  reiterate 
every  single  thing  I  said. 

And  now  it  degenerates  into  a  wrangle. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.    Then  the  law  shall  deal  with  you. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  You  can  dismiss  me  at  once,  if  you 
like,  Mr.  Madras. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     It's  libellous  .  .  .  it's  slander  .  .  .   ! 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.    Oh,  Freda,  don't! 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  Yes,  and  she  can  be  put  in  prison  for 
it. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  If  Miss  Yates  and  Mr.  Brigstock 
stay  with  this  firm,  I  go. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  And  she  shall  be  put  in  prison  .  .  . 
the  cat ! 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.     Don't,  Freda! 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  The  heartless  cat!  Do  you  swear  it 
isn't  true,  William? 


50  THE   MADRAS    HOUSE          [ACT  n 

PHILIP.     Take  your  wife  away,  Brigstock. 

PHILIP'S  sudden  vehemence  causes  MRS.  BRIGSTOCK 
to  make  straight  for  the  edge  of  her  self-control — 
and  over  it. 

MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.  Yes,  and  he  takes  himself  away  .  .  . 
leaves  the  f\rm,  I  should  think  so,  and  sorry  enough  you'll 
be  before  we've  done.  I'll  see  what  the  law  will  say  to  her 
.  .  .  and  they're  not  a  hundred  yards  off  ...  on  the  bet- 
ter side  of  the  street,  too,  and  a  plate  glass  window  as 
big  as  yours. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.     Do  be  quiet,  Freda! 
MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     [7n  hysterics  now.]     Three  hundred 
pounds,  and  how  much  did  Maple  have  when  he  started 
...  or    Whiteley  .  .  .  and    damages,    what's    more  .  .  . 
And  me  putting  up  with  the  life  I've  led  .  .  .    ! 

They  wait  till  the  fit  subsides — PHILIP  with  kindly 
impatience,  BRIGSTOCK  in  mute  apology — and  MRS. 
BRIGSTOCK  is  a  mass  of  sobs.  Then  BRIGSTOCK  edges 
her  towards  the  door. 

PHILIP.  Wait  .  .  .  wait  .  .  .  wait.  You  can't  go  into 
the  passage  making  that  noise. 

MR.  BRIGSTOCK.    Oh,  Freda,  you  don't  mean  it. 
MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     [Relieved  and  contrite.]     I'm  sure  I 
hope  I've  said  nothing  unbecoming  a  lady  ...  I  didn't 
mean  to. 

PHILIP.     Not  at  all  ...  it's  natural  you  should  be  upset. 
MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     And  we're  very  much  obliged  for  your 
kind  intentions  to  us  ... 

PHILIP.     Wait  till  you're  quite  calm. 
MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.    Thank  you. 

Then  with  a  final  touch  of  injury,  resentment,  dig- 
nity, she  shakes  off  BRIGSTOCK'S  timid  hold. 
MRS.  BRIGSTOCK.     You  needn't  hold  me,  William. 

WILLIAM  follows  her  out  to  forget  and  make  her 
forget  it  all  as  best  he  can.  PHILIP  comes  back  to 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  51 

his  chair,  stilt  good-humoured,  but  not  altogether 
pleased  with  his  ozvn  part  in  the  business  so  far. 

PHILIP.  I'm  afraid  you've  put  yourself  in  the  wrong, 
Miss  Chancellor. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  One  often  does,  sir,  in  doing  one's 
duty.  [Then  her  voice  rises  to  a  sort  of  swan  song.~\ 
Thirty  years  have  I  been  with  the  firm  .  .  .  only  thirty 
years.  I  will  leave  to-morrow. 

PHILIP.  I  hope  you  recognise  it  will  not  be  my  fault  if 
you  have  to. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  Miss  Yates  can  obviate  it.  She  has 
only  to  speak  the  truth. 

PHILIP  now  makes  another  effort  to  be  frank  and 
kindly. 

PHILIP.  Miss  Chancellor,  are  we  quite  appreciating  the 
situation  from  Miss  Yates's  point  of  view?  Suppose  she 
were  married? 

MISS  YATES.    I'm  not  married. 

PHILIP.  But  if  you  told  us  you  were,  we  should  have 
to  believe  you. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.     Why,  Mr.  Madras? 

PHILIP.  [With  a  smile.]  It  would  be  good  manners  to 
believe  her.  We  must  believe  so  much  of  what  we're  told 
in  this  world.' 

MISS  YATES.  [Who  has  quite  caught  on.]  Well,  I  did 
mean  to  stick  that  up  on  you  ...  if  anyone  wants  to 
know.  I  bought  a  wedding  ring,  and  I  had  it  on  when  I 
saw  Dr.  Willoughby.  But  when  she  came  in  with  her 
long  face  and  her  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  poor  child? 
.  .  .  well,  I  just  couldn't  ...  I  suppose  the  Devil  tempted 
me,  and  I  told  her  the  truth. 

PHILIP.  That's  as  I  thought,  so  far.  Miss  Yates,  have 
you  that  wedding  ring  with  you? 

MISS  YATES.     Yes,  I  have  .  .  .  it's  not  real  gold. 

PHILIP.     Put  it  on. 


52  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  n 

MISS  YATES,  having  fished  it  out  of  a  petticoat  pocket, 
rather  wonderingly  does  so,  and  PHILIP  turns,  ma- 
liciously humourous,  to  MISS  CHANCELLOR. 

PHILIP.     Now  where  are  we,  Miss  Chancellor? 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  I  think  we're  mocking  at  a  very 
sacred  thing,  Mr.  Madras. 

MISS  YATES.    Yes  .  .  .  and  I  won't  now. 

With  a  sudden  access  of  emotion  she  slams  the  ring 
upon  the  table.  PHILIP  meditates  for  a  moment  on 
the  fact  that  there  are  some  things  in  life  still  inac- 
cessible to  his  light-hearted  logic. 

PHILIP.  True  .  .  .  true  ...  I  beg  both  your  pardons. 
But  suppose  the  affair  had  not  got  about,  Miss  Yates? 

MISS  YATES.  Well  ...  I  should  have  had  a  nice  long 
illness.  It'd  all  depend  on  whether  you  wanted  me  enough 
to  keep  my  place  open. 

PHILIP.     You  are  an  employee  of  some  value  to  the  firm. 

MISS  YATES.  I  reckoned  you  would.  Miss  Mclntyre'd 
be  pleased  to  stay  on  a  bit  now  she's  quarrelled  with  her 
fiance.  Of  course  if  I'd  only  been  behind  the  counter  .  .  . 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  \Who  has  drawn  the  longest  of 
breaths  at  this  calculated  immodesty.]  This  is  how  she 
brazened  it  out  to  me,  Mr.  Madras.  This  is  just  what  she 
told  Mr.  Huxtable  .  .  .  and  you'll  pardon  my  saying  he 
took  a  very  different  view  of  the  matter  to  what  you  seem 
to  be  taking. 

MISS  YATES.  Oh,  I've  got  to  go,  now  I'm  found  out  .  .  . 
I'm  not  arguing  about  it. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  [Severely.]  Mr.  Madras,  what  sort 
of  notions  are  you  fostering  in  this  wretched  girl's  mind? 

PHILIP.  [Gently  enough.']  I  was  trying  for  a  moment 
to  put  myself  in  her  place. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  You  will  excuse  me  saying,  sir,  that 
you  are  a  man  .  .  . 

PHILIP.    Not  at  all ! 


ACT  n]          THE  MADRAS   HOUSE       •  53 

A  poor  joke,  but  MISS  CHANCELLOR  remains  uncon- 
scious of  it. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  Because  a  woman  is  independent, 
and  earning  her  living,  she's  not  to  think  she  can  go  on  as 
she  pleases.  If  she  wishes  to  have  children,  Providence 
has  provided  a  way  in  the  institution  of  marriage.  Miss 
Yates  would  have  found  little  difficulty  in  getting  mar- 
ried, I  gather. 

MISS  YATES.     Living  in  here  for  twelve  years ! 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  Have  you  been  a  prisoner,  Miss 
Yates?  Not  to  mention  that  there  are  two  hundred  and 
thirty-five  gentlemen  employed  here. 

MISS  YATES.     Supposing  I  don't  like  any  of  em? 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  My  dear  Miss  Yates,  if  you  are 
merely  looking  for  a  husband  as  such  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  we're 
all  God's  creatures,  I  suppose.  Personally,  I  don't  notice 
much  difference  in  men,  anyway. 

MISS  YATES.     Nor  did  I. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.    Lack  of  self-control  .  .  . 

MISS  YATES.      I  S  it ! 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  .  .  .  And  self-respect.  That's  what 
the  matter  is.  Are  we  beasts  of  the  field,  I  should  like  to 
know?  I  simply  do  not  understand  this  unladylike  atti- 
tude towards  the  facts  of  life.  Is  there  nothing  for  a 
woman  to  do  in  the  world  but  to  run  after  men  ...  or 
pretend  to  run  away  from  them?  I  am  fifty-eight  .  .  . 
and  I  have  passed,  thank  God,  a  busy  and  a  happy  and  I 
hope  a  useful  life  .  .  .  and  I  have  never  thought  any  more 
or  less  of  men  than  I  have  of  any  other  human  beings  .  .  . 
or  any  differently.  I  look  upon  spinsterhood  as  an  hon- 
ourable state,  as  my  Bible  teaches  me  to.  Men  are  differ- 
ent. But  some  women  marry  happily  and  well  .  .  .  and 
all  women  can't  .  .  .  and  some  can't  marry  at  all.  These 
facts  have  to  be  faced,  I  take  it. 


54  THE   MADRAS    HOUSE          [ACT  n 

PHILIP.  We  may  take  it  that  Miss  Yates  has  been  facing 
them. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  Yes,  sir,  and  in  what  spirit?  I  have 
always  endeavoured  to  influence  the  young  ladies  under 
my  control  towards  the  virtues  of  modesty  and  decorum 
...  so  that  they  may  regard  either  state  with  an  indiffer- 
ent mind.  If  I  can  no  longer  do  that,  I  prefer  to  resign 
my  charge.  I  will  say  before  this  young  person  that  I 
regret  the  story  should  have  got  about.  But  when  anyone 
has  committed  a  fault  it  seems  to  me  immaterial  who  knows 
of  it. 

PHILIP.     [Reduced  to  irony.]    Do  you  really  think  so? 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.     Do  you  require  me  any  more  now? 

PHILIP.  I  am  glad  to  have  had  your  explanation.  We'll 
have  a  private  talk  to-morrow. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR.  Thank  you,  sir.  I  think  that  will 
be  more  in  order.  Good  morning. 

PHILIP.     Good  morning. 

MISS  CHANCELLOR  has  expressed  herself  to  her  en- 
tire satisfaction,  and  retires  in  good  order.  MISS 
YATES,  conscientiously  brazen  until  the  enemy  has 
quite  disappeared,  collapses  pathetically.  And 
PHILIP,  at  his  ease  at  last,  begins  to  scold  her  in  a 
most  brotherly  manner. 

MISS  YATES.     I'm  sure  she's  quite  right  in  all  she  says. 

PHILIP.  She  may  not  be.  But  are  you  the  sort  of 
woman  to  have  got  yourself  into  a  scrape  of  this  kind, 
Miss  Yates? 

MISS  YATES.     I'm  glad  you  think  I'm  not,  sir. 

PHILIP.     Then  what  on  earth  did  you  go  and  do  it  for? 

MISS  YATES.     I  don't  know.    I  didn't  mean  to. 

PHILIP.     Why  aren't  you  married? 

MISS  YATES.  That's  my  business.  {Then,  as  if  making 
amends  for  the  sudden  snap.]  Oh  ...  I've  thought  of 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  55 

getting  married  any  time  these  twelve  years.     But  look 
what  happens  .  .  .  look  at  the  Brigstocks  .  .  . 

PHILIP.     No,  no,  no  ...  that's  not  what  I  mean.    Why 
aren't  you  to  be  married  even  now? 
MISS  YATES.     I'd  rather  not  say. 

MISS  YATES  assumes  an  air  of  reticence  natural 
enough;  but  there  is  something  a  little  peculiar  in 
the  manner  of  it,  so  PHILIP  thinks. 
PHILIP.     Very  well. 

MISS  YATES.  I'd  rather  not  talk  about  that  part  of  it, 
sir,  with  you,  if  you  don't  mind.  [Then  she  bursts  out 
again.']  I  took  the  risk.  I  knew  what  I  was  about.  I 
wanted  to  have  my  fling.  And  it  was  fun  for  a  bit.  That 
sounds  horrid,  I  know,  but  it  was. 

PHILIP  is  watching  her. 

PHILIP.  Miss  Yates,  I've  been  standing  up  for  you, 
haven't  I  ? 

MISS  YATES.      Yes. 

PHILIP.  That's  because  I  have  unconventional  opinions. 
But  I  don't  do  unconventional  things. 

MISS  YATES.     [Naively.]     Why  don't  you? 

PHILIP.  I  shouldn't  do  them  well.  Now  you  start  on 
this  adventure  believing  all  the  other  people  say,  so  I'm 
not  happy  about  you.  As  man  to  man,  Miss  Yates  .  .  . 
were  you  in  a  position  to  run  this  risk? 

MISS  YATES  honestly  thinks  before  she  speaks. 

MISS  YATES.  Yes  ...  I  shall  be  getting  a  hundred  and 
forty  a  year  living  out.  I've  planned  it  all.  [She  grows 
happily  confidential.]  There's  a  maisonette  at  Raynes 
Park,  and  I  can  get  a  cheap  girl  to  look  after  it  and  to 
take  care  of  ...  I  shall  call  him  my  nephew,  like  the 
Popes  of  Rome  used  to  ...  or  why  can't  I  be  a  widow? 
I  can  bring  him  up  and  do  him  well  on  it  Insurance'll 
be  a  bit  stiff  in  case  anything  happens  to  me.  But  I've  got 


56  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  n 

nearly  two  hundred  saved  in  the  bank  to  see  me  through 
till  next  summer. 

PHILIP.  Where  are  you  going  when  you  leave  here? 
What  relations  have  you? 

MISS  YATES.    I  have  an  aunt.    I  hate  her. 

PHILIP.     Where  are  you  going  for  the  winter? 

MISS  YATES.    Evercreech. 

PHILIP.    Where's  that? 

MISS  YATES.  I  don't  know.  You  get  to  it  from  Water- 
loo. I  found  it  in  the  A.  B.  C. 

PHILIP.     [In  protest.']    But  my  dear  girl  .  .  .   ! 

MISS  YATES.  Well,  I  want  a  place  where  nobody  knows 
me,  so  I'd  better  go  to  one  which  I  don't  know,  hadn't  I? 
I  always  make  friends.  I'm  not  afraid  of  people.  And 
I've  never  been  in  the  country  in  the  winter.  I  want  to 
see  what  it's  like. 

PHILIP  surrenders,  on  this  point  beaten;  but  takes 
up  another  more  seriously. 

PHILIP.  Well  .  .  .  granted  that  you  don't  want  a  hus- 
band .  .  .  it's  your  obvious  duty  to  make  the  man  help 
you  support  his  child. 

MISS  YATES  is  ready  for  it;  serious,  too. 

MISS  YATES.  I  daresay.  But  I  won't.  I've  known  other 
girls  in  this  sort  of  mess — one  or  two  .  .  .  with  everybody 
being  kind  to  them  and  sneering  at  them.  And  there  they 
sat  and  cried,  and  were  ashamed  of  themselves!  What's 
the  good  of  that?  And  the  fellows  hating  them.  Well,  I 
don't  want  him  to  hate  me.  He  can  forget  all  about  it  if 
he  likes  .  .  .  and  of  course  he  will.  I  started  by  crying 
my  eyes  out.  Then  I  thought  that  if  I  couldn't  buck  up 
and  anyway  pretend  to  be  pleased  and  jolly  well  proud,  I 
might  as  well  die.  And  d'you  know  when  I'd  been  pre- 
tending a  bit  I  found  that  I  really  was  pleased  and  proud. 
.  .  .  And  I  am  really  proud  and  happy  about  it  now,  sir 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  57 

...  I  am  not  pretending.    I  daresay  I've  done  wrong  .  .  . 

perhaps  I  ought  to  come  to  grief  altogether,  but 

At  this  moment  a  telephone  in  the  table  rings  vio- 
lently, and  MISS  YATES  apologises — to  it,  apparently. 

MISS  YATES.     Oh,  I  beg  pardon. 

PHILIP.  Excuse  me.  [Then  answering J]  Yes.  Who? 
No,  no,  no  ...  State.  Mr.  State.  Put  him  through.  [He 
is  evidently  put  through.]  Morning!  Who?  My  father 
.  .  .  not  yet.  Yes,  from  Marienbad. 

MISS  YATES  gets  up,  apparently  to  withdraw  tact- 
fully, but  looking  a  little  startled,  too. 

MISS  YATES.    Shall  I  ... 

PHILIP.     No,  no;  it's  all  right. 

BELHAVEN  knocks,  comes  in,  and  stands  waiting  by 
PHILIP,  who  telephones  on. 

PHILIP.  Yes?  Well?  .  .  .  Who  .  .  .  Mark  who?  .  .  . 
Aurelius.  No.  I've  not  been  reading  him  lately  .  .  .  Cer- 
tainly I  will  .  .  .  Thomas  is  here  doing  figures  .  .  .  d'you 
want  him  .  .  .  I'll  put  you  through.  .  .  .  No,  wait.  I'll 
call  him  here,  if  it's  not  private.  [Then  calling  out.'] 
Tommy ! 

BELHAVEN.  Major  Thomas  is  in  the  counting  house, 
sir. 

PHILIP.  Oh.  [Then  through  the  telephone.']  If  you'll 
hold  the  line  I  can  get  him  in  a  minute.  Say  Mr.  State's 
on  the  telephone  for  him,  Belhaven. 

BELHAVEN.  Yes,  sir  .  .  .  and  Mrs.  Madras  is  below  in 
a  taxicab,  sir,  and  would  like  to  speak  to  you.  Shall  she 
come  up,  or,  if  you're  too  busy  to  be  interrupted,  will  you 
come  down  to  her? 

PHILIP.    My  mother? 

BELHAVEN.  No,  not  Mrs.  Madras  .  .  .  your  Mrs. 
Madras,  sir. 

PHILIP.     Bring  her  up.    And  tell  Major  Thomas. 

BELHAVEN.      Yes,   Sir. 


58  THE   MADRAS    HOUSE          [ACT  n 

BELHAVEN  achieves  a  greased  departure,  and  PHILIP 
turns  back  to  MISS  YATES. 
PHILIP.     Where  were  we  ? 

MISS  YATES.  [InconsequentlyJ]  It  is  hot  in  here,  isn't 
it? 

PHILIP.     The  window's  open. 
MISS  YATES.     Shall  I  shut  it? 

She  turns  and  goes  up  to  the  window;  one  would 
say  to  run  aivay  from  him.     PHILIP  watches  her 
steadily. 
PHILIP.     What's  the  matter,  Miss  Yates? 

She  comes  back  more  collectedly. 

MISS  YATES.     Oh,  I'm  sure  Miss  Chancellor  can't  expect 
me  to  marry  one  like  that  now  .  .  .  can  she? 
PHILIP.     Marry  who? 

MISS  YATES.  Not  that  I  say  anything  against  Mr.  Bel- 
haven  ...  a  very  nice  young  man.  And,  indeed,  I  rather 
think  he  did  try  to  propose  last  Christmas.  The  fact  is, 
y'know,  it's  only  the  very  young  men  that  ever  do  ask 
you  to  marry  them  here.  When  they  get  older  they  seem 
to  lose  heart  ...  or  they  think  it'll  cost  too  much  ...  or 
.  .  .  but  anyway,  I'm  sure  it's  not  important  .  .  . 

This  very   out-of-place   chatter  dies  away   under 
PHILIP'S  sternly  enquiring  gaze. 

PHILIP.  There's  one  more  thing  I'm  afraid  I  ought  to 
ask  you.  This  trouble  hasn't  come  about  in  any  way  by  our 
sending  you  up  to  Bond  Street,  has  it? 

MISS  YATES.  [Diving  into  many  words  again.~\  Oh,  of 
course  it  was  most  kind  of  you  to  send  me  to  Bond  Street 
to  get  a  polish  on  one's  manners  .  .  .  but  I  tell  you  ...  I 
couldn't  have  stood  it  for  long.  Those  ladies  that  you  get 
coming  in  there  .  .  .  well,  it  does  just  break  your  nerve. 
What  with  following  them  about,  and  the  things  they  say 
you've  got  to  hear,  and  the  things  they'll  say  .  .  .  about 
you  half  the  time.  .  .  .  that  you've  got  not  to  hear  .  .  . 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  59 

and  keep  your  voice  low  and  sweet,  and  let  your  arms 
hang  down  straight.  You  may  work  more  hours  in  this 
place,  and  I  daresay  it's  commoner,  but  the  customers  are 
friendly  with  you. 

PHILIP.  .  .  .  Because,  you  see,  Mr.  Huxtable  and  I 
would  feel  a  little  more  responsible  if  it  was  anyone  con- 
nected with  us  who  .  .  . 

MISS  YATES.  [Quite  desperately.]  No,  you  needn't  .  .  . 
indeed  you  needn't  ...  I  will  say  there's  something  in 
that  other  place  that  does  set  your  mind  going  about  men. 
What  he  saw  in  me  I  never  could  think  .  .  .  honestly,  I 
couldn't,  though  I  think  a  good  deal  of  myself,  I  can  as- 
sure you.  But  it  was  my  own  fault,  and  so's  all  the  rest 
of  it  going  to  be  .  .  my  very  own  .  .  . 

MAJOR  THOMAS'S  arrival  is  to  MISS  YATES  a  very 
welcome  interruption,  as  she  seems,  perhaps  by  the 
hypnotism  of  PHILIP'S  steady  look,  to  be  getting 
nearer  and  nearer  to  saying  just  what  she  means 
not  to.    He  comes  in  at  a  good  speed,  glancing  back 
along  the  passage,  and  saying  .  .  . 
THOMAS.     Here's  Jessica. 
PHILIP.    State  on  the  telephone. 
THOMAS.     Thank  you. 

And  he  makes  for  it  as  JESSICA  comes  to  the  open 
door.  PHILIP'S  wife  is  an  epitome  of  all  that  (es- 
thetic culture  can  do  for  a  -woman.  More:  She  is 
the  result — not  of  thirty-three  years — but  of  three 
or  four  generations  of  cumulative  refinement.  She 
might  be  a  race  horse!  Come  to  think  of  it,  it  is 
a  very  wonderful  thing  to  have  raised  this  crop  of 
ladyhood.  Creatures,  dainty  in  mind  and  body,  gen- 
tle in  thought  and  word,  charming,  delicate,  sensi- 
tive, graceful,  chaste,  credulous  of  all  good,  shaming 
the  world's  ugliness  and  strife  by  the  very  ease  and 
delightsomeness  of  their  existence;  fastidious — fas- 


60  THE  MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  n 

tidious — fastidious;  also  in  these  latter  years  with 
their  attractions  more  generally  salted  by  the  addi- 
tion of  learning  and  humour.  Is  not  the  perfect 
lady  perhaps  the  most  wonderful  achievement  of 
civilisation,  and  worth  the  cost  of  her  breeding, 
worth  the  toil  and  the  helotage  of — all  the  others? 
JESSICA  MADRAS  is  even  something  more  than  a  lady, 
for  she  is  conscious  of  her  ladyhood.  She  values 
her  virtue  and  her  charm:  she  is  proud  of  her  cul- 
ture, and  fosters  it.  It  is  her  weapon;  it  justifies 
her.  As  she  floats  now  into  the  ugly  room,  ex- 
quisite from  her  eyelashes  to  her  shoes,  it  is  a  great 
relief — just  the  sight  of  her. 

JESSICA.    Am  I  interrupting? 

PHILIP.    No,  come  in,  my  dear. 

THOMAS.     [Into  the  telephone.]    Hullo ! 

PHILIP.  Well,  Miss  Yates,  I  want  to  see,  if  I  can,  that 
you  are  not  more  unfairly  treated  than  people  with  the 
courage  of  their  opinions  always  are. 

THOMAS.      Hullo ! 

PHILIP.     Oh,  you  don't  know  my  wife.    Jessica,  this  is 
Miss  Yates,  who  is  in  our  costume  room.     You're  not 
actually  working  in  your  department  now,  I  suppose? 
MISS  YATES.     [As  defiant  of  all  scandal.]    I  am. 
THOMAS.     [Still  to  the  unresponsive  telephone.]    Hullo ! 
Hullo ! 

PHILIP.  [Finding  MISS  YATES  beyond — possibly  above 
him.]  Very  well.  That'll  do  now. 

But  MISS  YATES,  by  the  presence  of  JESSICA,  is  now 
brought  to  her  best  costume  department  manner. 
She  can  assume  at  will,  it  seems,  a  new  face,  a  new 
voice;  can  become,  indeed,  a  black-silk  being  of 
another  species. 

MISS  YATES.  Thank  you,  sir.  I'm  sure  I  hope  I've  not 
talked  too  much.  I  always  was  a  chatterbox,  madam. 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  61 

PHILIP.  You  had  some  important  things  to  say,  Miss 
Yates. 

MISS  YATES.     Not  at  all,  sir.    Good  morning,  madam. 
JESSICA.    Good  morning. 

And  there  is  an  end  of  MISS  YATES.     Meanwhile, 
the  telephone  is  reducing  THOMAS  to  impotent  fury. 
THOMAS.     They've  cut  him  off. 

While  he  turns  the  handle  fit  to  break  it,  JESSICA 
produces  an  opened  telegram,  -which  she  hands  to 
PHILIP. 

JESSICA.    This  .  .  .  just  after  you  left 
PHILIP.     My  dear,  coming  all  this  way  with  it !     Why 
didn't  you  telephone? 

THOMAS.  [Hearing  something  at  last.]  Hullo  ...  is 
that  Mr.  State's  office?  No!  Well  .  .  .  Counting  house, 
are  you  still  through  to  it? 

JESSICA  is  watching,  with  an  amused  smile. 
JESSICA.    I  hate  the  telephone,  especially  the  one  here. 
Hark  at  you,  Tommy,  poor  wretch !    They  put  you  through 
from  office  to  office  .  .  .  six  different  clerks  ...  all  stu- 
pid, and  all  with  hideous  voices. 

PHILIP  has  now  read  his  telegram,  and  is  making 
a  face. 

PHILIP.    Well,  I  suppose  she  must  come,  if  she  wants  to. 
JESSICA.    What'll  your  father  say? 
PHILIP.    My  dear  girl  .  .  .  she  has  a  right  to  see  him 
if  she  insists  .  .  .  it's  very  foolish.    Here,  Tommy !     [He 
ousts  him  from  the  telephone  and  deals  expertly  with  it.] 
I  want  a  telegram  sent.    Get  double  three  double  O  Cen- 
tral, and  plug  through  to  my  room  .  .  .  not  here  .  .  .  my 
room. 

THOMAS.     [Fervently.]  Thank  yer. 
JESSICA.    Got  over  your  anger  at  the  play  last  night? 
THOMAS.     Oh,  sort  of  play  you  must  expect  if  you  go  to 
the  theatre  on  a  Sunday.    Scuse  me. 


62  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  n 

Having  admiringly  sized  up  JESSICA  and  her  cos- 
tume, he  bolts.  PHILIP  sits  down  to  compose  his 
telegram  in  reply.  JESSICA,  discovering  that  there 
is  nothing  attractive  to  sit  on,  hovers. 

PHILIP.     Can  you  put  her  up  for  the  night? 

JESSICA.     Yes. 

PHILIP.     Shall  I  ask  her  to  dinner? 

JESSICA.  She'll  cry  into  the  soup  .  .  .  but  I  suppose  it 
doesn't  matter. 

PHILIP.     Dinner  at  eight? 

JESSICA.     I  sound  inhospitable. 

PHILIP.     Well,  I've  only  said  we  shall  be  delighted. 

JESSICA.  But  your  mother  dislikes  me  so.  It's  difficult 
to  see  much  of  her. 

PHILIP.  You  haven't  much  patience  with  her,  have  you, 
Jessica? 

JESSICA.     Have  you? 

PHILIP.  [Whimsically."]  I've  known  her  longer  than 
you  have. 

JESSICA.  [With  the  nicest  humour.]  I  only  wish  she 
wouldn't  write  Mildred  silly  letters  about  God. 

PHILIP.     A  grandmother's  privilege. 

JESSICA.  The  child  sends  me  on  another  one  this  morn- 
ing .  .  .  did  I  tell  you? 

PHILIP.     No. 

JESSICA.  Miss  Gresham  writes,  too.  She  puts  it  quite 
nicely.  But  it's  an  awful  thing  for  a  school  to  get  relig- 
ion into  it. 

BELHAVEN  slides  in. 

BELHAVEN.       Yessir. 

PHILIP.     Send  this  at  once,  please. 

BELHAVEN.      Yessir. 

BELHAVEN  slides  out.  Then  PHILIP  starts  attending 
to  the  little  pile  of  letters  he  brought  in  with  him. 
JESSICA,  neglected,  hovers  more  widely. 


ACT  n] 


6S 


JESSICA.     Will  you  come  out  to  lunch,  Phil? 

PHILIP.     Lord !  is  it  lunch  time  ? 

JESSICA.     It  will  be  soon.    I'm  lunching  with  Margaret 
Inman  and  Walter  Muirhead  at  the  Dieudonne. 

PHILIP.     Then  you  won't  be  lonely. 

JESSICA.     [Mischievous.']    Margaret  may  be  if  you  don't 
come. 

PHILIP.     I  can't,  Jessica.    I'm  not  nearly  through. 

She  comes  to  rest  by  his  table,  and  starts  to  play 
with  the  things  on  it,  finding  at  last  a  blotting  roller 
that  gives  satisfaction. 

JESSICA.     Phil,  you  might  come  out  with  me  a  little 
more  than  you  do. 

PHILIP.     [Humorously  final.']     My  dear,  not  at  lunch 
time. 

JESSICA. 
I  came  in 

PHILIP. 

JESSICA. 
PHILIP. 

tract  me. 
JESSICA. 

PHILIP. 
JESSICA. 
PHILIP. 
JESSICA. 


Ugly  little  woman  you'd  been  scolding  when 

I  didn't  think  so. 

Are  ugly  women  as  attractive  as  ugly  men  ? 
D'you  know  ...  I  don't  find  that  women  at- 


What  a  husband! 
D'you  want  them  to? 
Yes  ...  in  theory. 
Why,  Jessica? 

[With  charming  finesse.]     For  my  own  sake. 
Last  day  of  Walter's  pictures.    He  has  sold  all  but  about 
five  .  .  .  and  there's  one  I  wish  you'd  buy. 
PHILIP.    Can't  afford  it. 

JESSICA.     I  suppose,  Phil,  you're  not  altogether  sorry 
you  married  me? 

Although  PHILIP  is  used  enough  to  her  charming 
and  reasoned  inconsequence,  he  really  jumps. 
PHILIP.      Good    heavens,    Jessica!      Well,    we've    got 
through  eleven  years,  haven't  we? 


6*  THE  MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  n 

JESSICA  puts  her  head  on  one  side  and  is  quite  half 
serious. 

JESSICA.    Are  you  in  the  least  glad  you  married  me? 
PHILIP.     My  dear  ...  I  don't  think  about  it.    Jessica, 
I  cannot  keep  up  this  game  of  repartee. 

She  floats  away  at  once,  half  seriously  snubbed  and 
hurt. 

JESSICA.     I'm  sorry.    I  know  I'm  interrupting. 
PHILIP.     [Remorseful  at  once,  for  she  is  so  pretty.]   No, 
no !    I  didn't  mean  that.    These  aren't  important. 

But  he  goes  on  with  his  letters,  and  JESSICA  stands 
looking  at  him,  her  face  hardening  a  little. 
JESSICA.     But  there  are  times  when  I  get  tired  of  wait- 
ing for  you  to  finish  your  letters. 

PHILIP.  I  know  ...  I  never  quite  finish  my  letters 
now-a-days.  You've  got  a  fit  of  the  idle-fidgets  this  morn- 
ing .  .  .  that's  what  brings  you  after  me.  Shall  we  hire 
a  motor  car  for  the  week-end? 

THOMAS  bundles  into  the  tete-a-tete,  saying  as  he 
comes  .  .  . 

THOMAS.    He'll  make  you  an  offer  for  the  place  here, 
Phil. 
PHILIP.    Good ! 

JESSICA  stands  there,  looking  her  prettiest. 
JESSICA.     Tommy,  come  out  and  lunch  .  .  .  Phil  won't. 
THOMAS.     I'm  afraid  I  can't. 

JESSICA.  I've  got  to  meet  Maggie  Inman  and  young 
Muirhead.  He'll  flirt  with  her  all  the  time.  If  there  isn't 
a  fourth  I  shall  be  fearfully  in  the  cold. 

PHILIP.  [Overcome  by  such  tergiversation.']  Oh,  Jes- 
sica ! 

THOMAS  is  nervous,  apparently;  at  least  he  is  neither 
ready  nor  gallant. 

THOMAS.  Yes,  of  course  you  will.  But  I'm  afraid  I 
can't 


ACT  11]          THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  65 

JESSICA.     [In  cheerful  despair.']    Well,  I  won't  drive  to 
Peckham  again  of  a  morning.    Wednesday,  then,  will  you 
call  for  me? 
THOMAS.    Wednesday? 
JESSICA.     Symphony  Concert. 

THOMAS.     [With  sudden  seriousness.']    D'you  know,  I'm 
afraid  I  can't  on  Wednesday,  either. 
JESSICA.    Why  not? 

THOMAS.  [Though  the  pretence  withers  before  a  cer- 
tain sharpness  in  her  question.]  Well  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  I 
can't. 

//  is  evident  that  JESSICA  has  a  temper  bred  to  a 

point  of  control  which  makes  it  nastier,  perhaps. 

She  now  becomes  very  cold,  very  civil,  very  swift. 

JESSICA.    We   settled  it  only  last  night.     What's   the 

time? 

PHILIP.    Five  to  one. 
JESSICA.    I  must  go.    I  shall  be  late. 
THOMAS.     [With  great  concern.]    Have  you  got  a  cab? 
JESSICA.    I  think  so. 

THOMAS.     We  might  do  the  next,  perhaps. 
JESSICA.     All   right,  Tommy  .  .  .  don't  be  conscience- 
stricken.     But  when  you  change  your  mind  about  going 
out  with  me  it's  pleasanter  if  you'll  find  some  excuse. 
Good-bye,  you  two. 

And  she  is  gone;  PHILIP  calling  after  her 

PHILIP.     I  shall  be  in  by  seven,  my  dear. 

THOMAS  looks  a  little  relieved,  and  then  consider- 
ably worried;  in  fact,  he  frowns  portentously. 
PHILIP  disposes  of  his  last  letter. 

PHILIP.  We've  so  organised  the  world's  work  as  to 
make  companionship  between  men  and  women  a  very 
artificial  thing. 

THOMAS.     [Without  interest.]    Have  we? 


66  THE   MADRAS    HOUSE          [ACT  n 

PHILIP.  I  think  so.  What  have  we  got  to  settle  before 
this  afternoon? 

THOMAS.  Nothing  much.  [Then  seeming  to  make  up 
his  mind  to  something.]  But  I  want  three  minutes'  talk 
with  you,  old  man. 

PHILIP.     Oh ! 

And  he  gets  up  and  stretches. 

THOMAS.     D'you  mind  if  I  say  something  caddish? 

PHILIP.     No. 

THOMAS.  Put  your  foot  down  and  don't  have  me  asked 
to  your  house  quite  so  much. 

PHILIP  looks  at  him  for  half  a  puzzled  minute. 

PHILIP.     Why  not? 

THOMAS.     I'm  seeing  too  much  of  your  wife. 

He  is  so  intensely  solemn  about  it  that  PHILIP  can 
hardly  even  pretend  to  be  shocked. 

PHILIP.     My  dear  Tommy  ! 

THOMAS.     I  don't  mean  one  single  word  more  than  I  say. 

PHILIP.  [Good-naturedly.'}  Tommy,  you  always  have 
flirted  with  Jessica. 

THOMAS.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I'm  the  least 
bit  in  love  with  her. 

PHILIP.  Naturally  not  .  .  .  you've  got  a  wife  of  your 
own. 

THOMAS.  [7n  intense  brotherly  agreement.']  Right. 
That's  good  horse  sense. 

PHILIP.  And  though,  as  her  husband,  I'm  naturally 
obtuse  in  the  matter  ...  I  really  don't  think  that  Jessica 
is  in  love  with  you. 

THOMAS.     [Most  generously.']     Not  for  a  single  minute. 

PHILIP.     Then  what's  the  worry,  you  silly  old  ass? 
THOMAS  starts  to  explain,  a  little  tortuously. 

THOMAS.  Well,  Phil,  this  is  such  a  damned  subtle  world. 
I  don't  pretend  to  understand  it,  but  in  my  old  age  I  have 


ACT  n]          THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  67 

got  a  sort  of  rule  of  thumb  experience  to   go  by  ... 
which,  mark  you,  I've  paid  for. 

PHILIP.     Well? 

THOMAS.  Phil,  I  don't  like  women,  and  I  never  did  .  .  . 
but  I'm  hardly  exaggerating  when  I  say  I  married  simply 
to  get  out  of  the  habit  of  finding  myself  once  every  six 
months  in  such  a  position  with  one  of  them  that  I  was 
supposed  to  be  making  love  to  her. 
PHILIP  is  enjoying  himself. 

PHILIP.    What  do  they  see  in  you,  Tommy? 

THOMAS.  God  knows,  old  man  ...  I  don't.  And  the 
time  it  took  up !  Of  course  I  was  as  much  in  love  with 
Mary  as  you  like,  or  I  couldn't  have  asked  her  to  marry 
me.  And  I  wouldn't  be  without  her  and  the  children  now 
for  all  I  ever  saw.  But  I  don't  believe  I'd  have  gone  out 
of  my  way  to  get  them  if  I  hadn't  been  driven  to  it,  old 
man,  .  .  .  driven  to  it.  I'm  not  going  to  start  the  old 
game  again  now.  [And  he  wags  his  head  wisely.] 

PHILIP.  What's  the  accusation  against  Jessica?  Let's 
have  it  in  so  many  words. 

THOMAS  gathers  himself  up  to  launch  the  vindicat- 
ing compliment  effectively. 

THOMAS.  She's  a  very  accomplished  and  a  very  charm- 
ing and  a  very  sweet-natured  woman.  I  consider  she's  an 
ornament  to  society. 

PHILIP.  [With  equal  fervour.]  You're  quite  right, 
Tommy,  .  .  .  what  are  we  to  do  with  them? 

THOMAS.   [It's  his  favourite  phrase.]   What  d'you  mean  ? 

PHILIP.     Well  .  .  .  what's  your  trouble  with  her? 

THOMAS.  [Tortuously  still.]  There  ain't  any  yet  .  .  . 
but  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  I've  been  dreading  for  the  last  three 
weeks  that  Jessica  would  begin  to  talk  to  me  about  you. 
That's  why  I'm  talking  to  you  about  her.  [Then,  with  a 
certain  enjoyment  of  his  shocking  looseness  of  behaviour.] 
I  am  a  cad! 


68  THE  MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  n 

PHILIP.  [Still  amused — but  now  rather  sub-acidly."] 
My  standing  for  the  County  Council  must  be  a  most  dan- 
gerous topic. 

THOMAS.  But  that's  just  how  it  begins.  Then  there's 
hints  .  .  .  quite  nice  ones  .  .  .  about  how  you  get  on  with 
each  other.  Last  night  in  the  cab  she  was  talking  about 
when  she  was  a  girl  .  .  . 

PHILIP.    I  walked  home.  Tactful  husband ! 

THOMAS.     Phil  .  .  .  don't  you  be  French. 
PHILIP,  suddenly  serious,  turns  to  him. 

PHILIP.  But,  Tommy,  do  you  imagine  that  she  is  un- 
happy with  me? 

THOMAS.  No,  I  don't.  But  she  thinks  a  lot  ...  when 
she's  bored  with  calling  on  people,  and  her  music  and  her 
pictures.  And  once  you  begin  putting  your  feelings  into 
words  .  .  .  why,  they  grow. 

PHILIP.  But  if  she  were,  I'd  rather  that  she  did  con- 
fide in  you. 

THOMAS  shakes  his  head  vehemently. 

THOMAS.    No. 

PHILIP.     Why  shouldn't  she?    You're  friends. 

THOMAS.  Yes  .  .  .  there's  no  reason  .  .  .  but  I  tell  you 
it  always  begins  that  way. 

PHILIP.  You  silly  ass  ...  can't  you  let  a  woman  talk 
seriously  to  you  without  making  love  to  her? 

THOMAS.  Damn  it,  that's  what  they  say  .  .  .  but  it 
never  made  any  difference. 

PHILIP.     Tommy,  you're  a  perfect  child ! 

THOMAS.  I  remember  when  I  was  twenty-four  .  .  . 
there  was  one  woman  .  .  .  years  older  than  me  .  .  .  had 
a  grown-up  son.  She  took  to  scolding  me  for  wasting  my 
time  flirting.  Told  me  she'd  done  it  herself  once  .  .  .  then 
told  me  why  she'd  done  it.  I  kept  off  kissing  her  for  six 
weeks,  and  I'll  swear  she  never  wanted  me  to  kiss  her. 
But  I  did. 


ACT  n]          THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  69 

PHILIP.    Did  she  box  your  ears? 

THOMAS.  No  .  .  .  she  said  she  couldn't  take  me  seri- 
ously. Well  ...  if  I'd  gone  away  that  would  have  been 
priggish.  And  if  I'd  stayed  I'd  have  done  it  again. 

PHILIP.     [Mischievously.]     Which  did  you  do? 

THOMAS.    Oh  .  .  .  never  you  mind. 

PHILIP.  [With  the  utmost  geniality. 1  Well  .  .  .  you 
have  my  permission  to  kiss  Jessica,  if  you  think  she  wants 
you  to. 

THOMAS.  Thanks,  old  man  .  .  .  that's  very  clever  and 
up  to  date,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  ...  but  I  asked  you  to 
chuck  me  out  of  the  house  to  some  extent. 

PHILIP.     I'm  not  going  to. 

THOMAS.     Then  you're  no  friend  of  mine. 

PHILIP.  Let  us  put  it  quite  brutally.  If  Jessica  chooses 
to  be  unfaithful  to  me  how  am  I  to  stop  her  .  .  .  even  if 
I've  the  right  to  stop  her? 

THOMAS.  If  you're  not  prepared  to  behave  like  a  de- 
cent married  man  you've  no  right  to  be  married  .  .  . 
you're  a  danger. 

PHILIP.  Also,  Tommy,  if  you  caught  me  making  love 
to  your  wife  you  might  talk  to  me  .  .  .  but  you  wouldn't 
talk  to  her  about  it. 

THOMAS.  [With  a  touch  of  sentiment.']  Mary's  differ- 
ent. [Then  protesting  again.]  And  I'm  not  making  love 
to  your  wife.  I  told  you  so. 

PHILIP.  Then  if  she's  making  love  to  you,  run  away 
for  yourself. 

THOMAS.  She  isn't  making  love  to  me.  But  if  you  can't 
take  a  hint 

PHILIP.    A  hint!    Well  ...  I'm  dashed! 

THOMAS.  Well,  old  man,  I  give  you  fair  warning  of  the 
sort  of  fool  I  am  .  .  .  and  I'll  take  no  more  responsibility 
in  the  matter. 

PHILIP.     [In  comic  desperation.]     Don't  warn  me  ,  .  . 


70  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE          [ACT  n 

warn  Jessica.    Tell  her  you're  afraid  of  making  a  fool  of 
yourself  with  her  .  .  . 

THOMAS.  [His  eyebrows  tip.]  But  that'd  be  as  good  as 
doing  it.  Good  Lord,  you  can't  behave  towards  women 
as  if  they  were  men  ! 

PHILIP.     Why  not? 

THOMAS.    You  try  it. 

PHILIP.     I  always  do. 

THOMAS.  No  wonder  she  wants  to  grumble  about  you 
to  me. 

PHILIP  takes  him  seriously  again. 

PHILIP.  Look  here,  Tommy,  I  know  Jessica  pretty  well. 
She  doesn't  want  to  be  made  love  to. 

THOMAS.     [Positively  and  finally.]  Yes,  she  does.   [Then 

i        with  real  chivalry.']     I  don't  mean  that  unpleasantly  .  .  . 

but  all  women  do.     Some  of  em  want  to  be  kissed  and 

some  want  you  to  talk  politics  .  .  .  but  the  principle's  the 

same. 

PHILIP.  [Finely  contemptuous.]  What  a  world  you 
live  in ! 

THOMAS.  .  .  .  And  the  difficulty  with  me  is  that  if  I 
try  to  talk  politics  I  find  they  don't  know  enough  about  it 
...  or  else  that  they  know  too  much  about  it  ...  and  it's 
simpler  to  kiss  em  and  have  done. 

PHILIP.     Oh,  much  simpler! 

THOMAS.     [Back  to  his  starting  point — pathetic.]     But 
Fin  married  now,  and  I  want  a  quiet  life  .  .  . 
A  knock  at  the  door  interrupts  him. 

PHILIP.     Come  in. 

It  is  BELHAVEN. 

BELHAVEN.    Will  you  lunch,  sir? 
PHILIP.     What  is  there? 
BELHAVEN.     I'm  afraid  only  the  Usual,  sir. 
PHILIP.    Can  you  manage  the  Usual,  Tommy?     What 
is  it,  Belhaven? 


ACT  n]          THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  71 

BELHAVEN.  Boiled  mutton  and  a  jam  pudding,  I  think, 
sir.  [Then  as  confessing  to  a  vulgarity.']  Roly-poly. 

THOMAS.  [With  great  approval.]  Right.  I  hope  it's 
strawberry  jam. 

PHILIP.  Sure  to  be.  Put  it  in  Mr.  Huxtable's  room, 
will  you  .  .  .  that's  airy. 

BELHAVEN.      Yessir. 

BELHAVEN  vanishes. 

THOMAS.  [As  on  reflection.]  Not  plum,  y'know  .  .  . 
plum's  no  use. 

PHILIP  gathers  up  his  papers. 
PHILIP.     I'll  give  the  wicked  woman  your  message. 

THOMAS  takes  alarm.    He  hadn't  thought  of  this. 
THOMAS.     No  ...  do  it  off  your  own  bat.     She  won't 
mind,  then. 

PHILIP.  Tommy,  I  cannot  assume  the  turban  of  the 
Turk.  My  sense  of  humour  and  my  sense  of  decency  to- 
wards women  won't  let  me. 

THOMAS.  [Frowning.]  I  believe  I'd  better  not  have 
told  you. 

PHILIP.     [Unsympathetic.]    Why  not?    Next  to  telling 
her,  the  most  commonsense  thing  to  do. 
THOMAS.     She  won't  think  so. 
PHILIP.     She'll  have  to. 

There  is  something  so  like  cruelty  in  these  three 
words  that  THOMAS  stares  at  him.  Then  he  says, 
reflectively, 

TifoMAS.     Phil,   d'you   ever  thank   God  you're   not   a 
woman? 
PHILIP.    No. 

THOMAS.  When  I  think  what  most  of  em  have  to 
choose  between  is  soft-hearted  idiots  like  me  and  hard- 
headed  devils  like  you  ...  I  wonder  they  put  up  with 
us  as  they  do. 


72  THE  MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  u 

PHILIP  stares  at  him  in  turn  with  a  queer  smile. 

Then,  as  he  turns  to  go  .  .  . 
PHILIP.    You've  made  it  again,  Tommy. 
THOMAS.    What? 
PHILIP.    Your  one  sensible  remark.    Come  along. 

And  he  is  gone.    THOMAS  follows,  protesting. 
THOMAS.    Look  here  .  .  .  what  d'you  mean  by  One  Sen- 
sible Remark?    It's  like  your  infernal  .  .  . 

He  pulls  the  door  to  after  him.    The  room  is  alone 

with  its  ugliness. 


ACT  ra]         THE  MADRAS   HOUSE 


ACT  III 

In  1884  the  Madras  House  was  moved  to  its  'present  'prem- 
ises in  Bond  Street.  In  those  days  decoration  was 
mostly  a  matter  of  'paint  and  wall-paper,  but  MR. 
CONSTANTINE  MADRAS,  ever  daring,  proceeded  to 
beautify  the  home  of  his  professional  triumphs.  He 
could  neither  draw  nor  colour,  but  he  designed  and 
saw  to  it  all  himself,  and  being  a  man  of  great  force 
of  character,  produced  something  which,  though  ex- 
traordinarily wrong,  was  yet,  since  it  was  sincere, 
in  a  way  effective.  It  added  to  his  reputation  and 
to  the  attractiveness  of  the  Madras  House. 

In  twenty-six1  years  there  have  been  changes,  but  one  room 
remains  untouched  from  then  till  now.  This  is  the 
rotunda,  a  large,  lofty,  skylighted  place,  done  in 
the  Moorish  style.  The  walls  are  black  marble  to 
the  height  of  a  man,  and  from  there  to  the  ceiling 
the  darkest  red.  The  ceiling  is  of  a  cerulean  blue, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  skylight  a  golden  sun,  with 
spiked  rays  proceeding  from  its  pleasant  human 
countenance,  takes  credit  for  some  of  the  light  it 
intercepts.  An  archway  with  fretted  top  leads  from 
the  rest  of  the  establishment.  Another  has  behind 
it  a  platform,  a  few  steps  high,  hung  with  black  vel- 
vet. The  necessary  fireplace  (were  there  hot-water 
'pipes  in  1884?)  is  disguised  by  a  heavy  multi- 
coloured canopy,  whose  fellow  hangs  over  a  small 
door  opposite.  On  the  floor  is  a  Persian  carpet  of 


74  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  ra 

some  real  beauty.  On  the  walls  are  gas  brackets 
(1884  again!)  the  oriental  touch  achieved  in  their 
crescent  shape.  Round  the  wall  are  divans,  many 
cushioned;  in  front  of  them  little  coffee-stools.  It 
is  all  about  as  Moorish  as  Baker  Street  Station, 
but  the  general  effect  is  humorous,  pleasant,  and 
even  not  undignified. 

In  the  old,  grand  days  of  the  Madras  House  the  rotunda 
was  the  happy  preserve  of  very  special  customers, 
those  on  whom  the  great  man  himself  would  keep 
an  eye.  If  you  had  been  there  you  spoke  of  it 
casually;  indeed,  to  be  free  of  the  rotunda  was  to 
be  a  well-dressed  woman  and  recognised  by  all  so- 
ciety as  such.  Ichabod!  Since  MR.  CONSTANTINE 
MADRAS  retired,  the  Madras  House  is  on  the  way 
to  becoming  almost  like  any  other  shop;  the  special 
customers  are  nobody  in  particular,  and  the  rotunda 
is  where  a  degenerate  management  meet  to  consider 
the  choice  of  ready-made  models  from  Paris.  A 
large  oval  table  had  to  be  imported  and  half  a 
dozen  Moorish  chairs.  It  seemed,  to  the  surprise  of 
the  gentleman  who  went  innocently  ordering  such 
things,  that  there  were  only  that  number  in  exist- 
ence. Scene  of  its  former  glories,  this  is  now  to 
be  the  scene,  perhaps,  of  the  passing  of  the  Madras 
House  into  alien  hands. 

Three  o'clock  on  the  Monday  afternoon  is  when  the  deal 
is  to  be  put  through,  if  possible,  and  it  is  now  five 
minutes  to.  MAJOR  THOMAS  is  there,  sitting  at  the 
table;  papers  spread  before  him,  racking  his  brains 
at  a  few  final  figures.  PHILIP  is  there,  in  rather  a 
school-boyish  mo'od.  He  is  sitting  on  the  table, 
swinging  his  legs.  MR.  HUXTABLE  is  there,  too, 
dressed  in  his  best,  important  and  nervous,  and  he 
is  talking  to  MR.  EUSTACE  PERRIN  STATE. 


ACT  in]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  75 

MR.  STATE  is  an  American,  and  if  American  magazine  lit- 
erature is  anything  to  go  by,  no  American  is  alto- 
gether unlike  him.  He  has  a  rugged,  blood  and  iron 
sort  of  face,  utterly  belied  by  his  soft,  smiling  eyes; 
rightly  belied,  too,  for  he  has  made  his  thirty  or 
forty  millions  in  the  gentlest  way — as  far  as  he 
knows.  You  would  not  think  of  him  as  a  money- 
maker. As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  has  no  love  of 
money,  and  little  use  for  it,  for  his  tastes  are  simple. 
But  money-making  is  the  honourable  career  in  his 
own  country,  and  he  has  the  instinct  for  turning 
money  over  and  the  knack  of  doing  so  on  a  big 
scale.  His  shock  of  grey  hair  makes  him  look  older 
than  he  probably  is;  his  voice  is  almost  childlike 
in  its  sweetness.  He  has  the  dignity  and  aptitude 
for  command  that  power  can  give. 

From  the  little  canopied  dome  comes  MR.  WINDLESHAM, 
present  manager  of  the  establishment.  He  is  a 
tailor-made  man;  and  the  tailor  only  left  off  for 
the  wax  modeller  and  wigmaker  to  begin.  For  his 
clothes  are  too  perfect  to  be  worn  by  anything  but 
a  dummy,  and  his  hair  and,  complexion  are  far  from 
human.  Not  that  he  dyes  or  paints  them;  no,  they 
were  made  like  that.  His  voice  is  a  little  inhuman, 
too,  and  as  he  prefers  the  French  language,  with 
which  he  has  a  most  unripe  acquaintance,  to  his 
own,  and  so  speaks  English  as  much  like  French  as 
his  French  is  like  English,  his  conversation  seems 
as  unreal  as  the  rest  of  him.  Impossible  to  think  of 
him  in  any  of  the  ordinary  relations  of  life.  He 
is  a  functionary.  Nature,  the  great  inventor,  will 
evolve,  however  roughly,  what  is  necessary  for  her 
uses.  Millinery  has  evolved  the  man-milliner.  As 
he  comes  in — and  he  has  the  gait  of  a  water-wagtail 
— MR.  HUXTABLE  is  making  conversation. 


76  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  ni 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  A  perfect  barometer,  as  you  might  say 
— when  your  eye  gets  used  to  it. 

WINDLESHAM.  [To  PHILIP,  and  with  a  wag  of  his  head 
back  to  the  other  room.']  They're  just  ready. 

MR.  STATE.  [Smiling  benevolently  at  MR.  HUXTABLE.] 
Is  it  really  ?  The  Crystal  Palace  !  But  what  a  sound  that 
has! 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [With  modest  pride. ~]  And  a  very 
ealthy  locality ! 

PHILIP.  Come  along  and  meet  State.  [He  jumps  off 
the  table,  capturing  WINDLESHAM'S  arm.'] 

MR.  STATE.  [Enthusiastic .]  Denmark  Hill.  Compli- 
ment to  Queen  Alexandra! 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Struck  by  the  information.']  Was  it, 
now? 

MR.  STATE.  Herne  Hill  .  .  .  Herne  the  Hunter !  That's 
the  charm  of  London  to  an  American.  Association.  Every 
spot  speaks. 

PHILIP.  [As  he  joins  them.']  This  is  Mr.  Windlesham 
.  .  .  our  manager.  He's  going  to  show  us  some  new 
models. 

MR.  STATE  impressively  extends  a  hand  and  repeats 
the  name. 

MR.  STATE.     Mr.  Windlesham. 

WINDLESHAM.  Most  happy.  I  thought  you'd  like  to  see 
the  very  latest  .  .  .  brought  them  from  Paris  only  yes- 
terday. 

MR.  STATE.  Most  opportune!  [Then  with  a  sweeping 
gesture.']  Mr.  Philip,  this  room  inspires  me.  Your  father's 
design  ? 

PHILIP.    Yes. 

MR.   STATE.      I   thought   SO. 

PHILIP.     That  used  to  be  his  private  office. 
MR.  STATE.     [Reverently.']    Indeed !   Where  the  Duchess 
went  on  her  knees !    An  historic  spot.    Interesting  to  me ! 


ACT  m]        THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  77 

PHILIP.     Something  of  a  legend  that. 

MR.  STATE,  intensely  solemn,  seems  now  to  ascend 
the  pulpit  of  some  philosophic  conventicle. 

MR.  STATE.  I  believe  in  legends,  sir  ...  they  are  the 
spiritual  side  of  facts.  They  go  to  form  tradition.  And 
it  is  not  given  to  man  to  found  his  institutions  in  security 
of  mind  except  upon  tradition.  That  is  why  our  eyes 
turn  eastward  to  you  from  America,  Mr.  Huxtable. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     [In  some  awe.'}    Do  they,  now? 

MR.  STATE.  Has  it  never  struck  you  that  while  the  prog- 
ress of  man  has  been  in  the  path  of  the  sun,  his  thoughts 
continually  go  back  to  the  place  of  its  rising?  I  have  at 
times  found  it  a  very  illuminating  idea. 

PHILIP.  [Not  indecently  commonplace.']  Well,  have 
them  in  now,  Windlesham,  while  we're  waiting. 

WINDLESHAJH.  You  might  cast  your  eyes  over  these 
new  girls,  Mr.  Philip  .  .  .  the  very  best  I  could  find,  I 
do  assure  you.  Faces  are  hard  enough  to  get,  but  figures 
.  .  .  Well,  there!  [Reaching  the  little  door,  he  calls 
through.]  Aliens  Mes'moiselles !  Non  .  .  .  non  .  .  . 
par  1'autre  porte  et  a  la  gauche.  [Then  back  again.] 
You  get  the  best  effect  through  a  big  doorway.  [He 
further  explains  this  by  sketching  one  in  the  air.]  One, 
two  and  four  first 

He  exhibits  some  costume  drawings  he  has  been 
carrying,  distributes  one  or  two,  and  then  vanishes 
into  the  other  room,  from  which  his  voice  vibrates. 

WINDLESHAM.  En  avant  s'il  vous  plait.  Numero  un ! 
Eh  bien  .  .  .  numero  trois.  Non  Ma'moiselle,  ce  n'est  pas 
commode  .  .  .  regardez  ce  corsage  la  ... 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Making  a  face.]  What  I'm  always 
thinking  is,  why  not  have  a  manly  chap  in  charge  of  the 
place  up  here. 

MR.  STATE.     [With  perfect  justice.]     Mr.  Windlesham 


78  THE   MADRAS  HOUSE         [ACT  m 

may  be   said  to   strike  a  note.      Whether  it  is   a  right 

note  .  .  .   ? 

Through  the  big  doorway  WINDLESHAM  ushers  in 
a  costume  from  Paris,  the  very  last  word  in  dis- 
creet and  costly  finery,  delicate  in  colour,  fragile  in 
texture;  a  creation.  This  is  hung  upon  a  young 
lady  of  pleasing  appearance,  pre-occupied  with  its 
exhibition,  which  she  achieves  by  slow  and  sinuous, 
never-ceasing  movements.  She  glides  into  the  room. 
She  wears  a  smile  also. 
WINDLESHAM.  One  and  two  are  both  Larguilliere,  Mr. 

Philip.     He  can't  get  in  the  Soupqon  Anglais,  can  he? 

Won't  ...  I  tell  him.    Promenez  et  sortez  Ma'moiselle. 

The  young  lady,  still  smiling  and  sinuous,  begins 
to  circle  the  room.  She  seems  to  be  unconscious 
of  its  inhabitants,  and  they,  in  return,  rather  dread- 
fully pretend  not  to  notice  her,  but  only  the  costume. 

WINDLESHAM.       NumefO  DeUX. 

Another  costume,  rakishly  inclined,  with  a  hat  de- 
liberately hideous.  The  young  lady  contained  in 
them  is  again  slow  and  sinuous  and  vacantly 
smiling. 

WINDLESHAM.     But  this  is  chic,  isn't  it?    Promenez. 
MR.  STATE.     [In  grave  enquiry.']     What  is  the  Soupqon 
Anglais  ? 

PHILIP.  A  Frenchman  will  tell  you  that  for  England 
you  must  first  make  a  design  and  then  spoil  it. 

THOMAS.  [Whose  attention  has  been  rivetted.~\  Don't 
they  speak  English? 

WINDLESHAM.  Oh,  pas  un  mot  ...  I  mean,  not  a 
word.  Only  came  over  with  me  yesterday  .  .  .  these 
three. 

THOMAS.     Because  this  frock's  a  bit  thick,  y'know. 
WINDLESHAM.     Numero  Trois! 

A  third  costume,  calculated  to  have  an  innocent 


ACT  ra]         THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  79 

effect.    The  accompanying  young  lady,  with  a  sense 
of  fitness,  wears  a  pout  instead  of  a  smile. 
PHILIP.     What's  this?     [His  eye  is  on  the  surmounting 
hat  of  straw.'] 

WINDLESHAM.  [With  a  little  crow  of  delight.']  That's 
the  new  hat.  La  belle  Helene  again  ! 

MR.  STATE.  [Interested,  still  grave.]  La  belle  Helene. 
A  Parisian  firm? 

WINDLESHAM.  [Turning  this  to  waggish  account.] 
Well  .  .  .  dear  me  .  .  .  you  can  almost  call  her  that,  can't 
you?  [Suddenly  he  dashes  at  the  costume  and  brings  it 
to  a  standstill.']  Oh,  mon  Dieu,  Ma'moiselle !  La  gorgette 
.  .  .  vous  1'avez  derange. 

He  proceeds  to  arrange  la  gorgette  to  his  satisfac- 
tion, also  some  other  matters  which  seem  to  involve 
a  partial  evisceration  of  the  underclothing.  The 
young  lady,  passive,  pouts  perseveringly.  He  is 
quite  unconscious  of  her  separate  existence.  But 
THOMAS  is  considerably  shocked,  and  whispers  vio- 
lently to  PHILIP. 

THOMAS.    I  say,  he  shouldn't  pull  her  about  like  that. 
WINDLESHAM.     [Skipping   back  to  admire  the  result] 
La  ...  comme  c,a. 

The  costume  continues  its  round;  the  others  are 
still  circling,  veering  and  tacking,  while  WINDLE- 
SHAM trips  admiringly  around  and  about  them.    It 
all  looks  like  some  dance  of  modish  dervishes. 
PHILIP.     [Heartlessly]    La  belle  Helene,  Mr.  State,  is 
a  well-known  Parisian  cocotte  .  .  .  who  sets  many  of  the 
fashions  which  our  wives  and  daughters  afterwards  as- 
sume. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     [Scandalised]     Don't  say  that,  Phil; 
it's  not  nice. 
PHILIP.    Why? 
MR.  HUXTABLE.     I'm  sure  no  ladies  are  aware  of  it. 


80  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  in 

PHILIP.  But  what  can  be  more  natural  and  right  than 
for  the  professional  charmer  to  set  the  pace  for  the 
amateur ! 

WINDLESHAM.  [Pausing  in  the  dance.'}  Quite  la  haute 
cocotterie,  of  course. 

MR.  STATE.     [Solemnly.]     Do  you  infer,  Mr.  Madras,  a 
difference  in  degree,  but  not  in  kind? 
PHILIP.     [Courteously  echoing  his  tone.]     I  do. 
MR.  STATE.     That  is  a  very  far-reaching  observation,  sir. 
PHILIP.    It  is. 

THOMAS.  Do  you  know  the  lady  personally,  Mr.  Win- 
dlesham  ? 

WINDLESHAM  turns,  with  some  tag  of  a  costume  in 

his  hand,  thus  unconsciously  detaining  the  occupier. 

WINDLESHAM.     Oh,  no  .  .  .  oh,  dear  me,  no  ...  quite 

the  reverse,  I  do  assure  you.    There's  nothing  gay  in  Paris 

to  me.    I  was  blase  long  ago. 

MR.  STATE.     But  touching  that  hat,  Mr.  Windlesham. 
WINDLESHAM.     Oh,  to  be  sure.    Attendez,  mademoiselle. 
Tiptoeing,  he  dexterously  tilts  the  straw  hat  from 
the  elaborate  head  it  is  perched  on. 
WINDLESHAM.    It's  not  a  bad  story.    Sortez. 

By  this  two  costumes  have  glided  out.     The  third 
follows.    STATE,  who  has  found  it  hard  to  keep  his 
eyes  off  them,  gives  something  of  a  sigh. 
MR.  STATE.    If  they'd  only  just  smile  or  wink,  I  might 
get  over  the  extraordinary  feeling  it  gives  me. 

WINDLESHAM,  caressing  the  hat,  takes  up  an  atti- 
tude for  his  story. 

WINDLESHAM.  Well  ...  it  appears  that  a  while  ago, 
out  at  the  Pre  Cathelan  .  .  .  there  was  Helene,  taking  her 
afternoon  cup  of  buttermilk.  What  should  she  see  but 
Madame  Erlancourt  .  .  .  one  knows  enough  about  that 
lady,  of  course  .  .  .  in  a  hat  the  very  twin  of  hers  ,  .  . 


ACT  mj        THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  81 

the  very  twin.     Well  .  .  .  you  can  imagine!     Someone 
had  blundered. 

MR.  STATE.     [Absorbed.'}    No,  I  don't  follow. 

PHILIP.  Some  spy  in  the  service  of  that  foreign  power 
had  procured  and  parted  with  the  plans  of  the  hat. 

MR.  STATE.  Madame  What's-her-name  might  have  seen 
it  on  her  before,  and  copied  it. 

PHILIP.    Mr.  State,  Helene  doesn't  wear  a  hat  twice. 

MR.  STATE.    My  mistake ! 

WINDLESHAM.     So  there  was  a  terrible  scene  .  .  . 

THOMAS.    With  madame  .  .  .  ? 

WINDLESHAM.  [Repudiating  any  such  vulgarity.']  Oh, 
no.  Helene  just  let  fly  at  her  chaperon,  she  being  at 
hand,  so  to  speak. 

MR.  STATE.  [Dazzled.]  Her  what!  [Then  with  hu- 
morous awe.]  No,  I  beg  your  pardon  ...  go  on  ...  go 
on. 

WINDLESHAM.  She  took  off  her  own  hat  .  .  .  pinned  it 
on  the  head  of  the  ugliest  little  gamine  she  could  find,  and 
sent  the  child  walking  along  the  grass  in  it.  Then  she 
sent  to  the  kitchens  for  one  of  those  baskets  they  bring 
the  fish  in  ...  [He  twirls  the  hat.']  .  .  .  you  see.  Then 
she  ripped  a  yard  of  lace  off  her  underskirt  and  twisted 
it  round.  Then  she  took  off  both  her  .  .  .  well  ...  La 
Belle  France,  you  know  .  .  .  there  is  something  in  the 
atmosphere !  It  was  her  garters  she  took  off  .  .  .  blue 
silk. 

MR.  STATE.     [Puritan.']     In  public? 

WINDLESHAM.  [Professional.]  Oh,  ...  it  can  be  done. 
Hooked  them  together  and  fastened  the  bit  of  lace  round 
the  basket  this  way.  Tres  simple !  That's  what  she  wore 
the  rest  of  the  afternoon  and  back  to  Paris.  This  is  what's 
going  to  be  the  rage. 

Having  deftly  pantomimed  this  creation  of  a  fash- 


82  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  m 

ion,  he  hands  the  hat,  with  an  air,  to  MR.  STATE, 
who  examines  it.    PHILIP  is  smilingly  caustic. 
PHILIP.    La  belle  Helene  has  imagination,  Mr.   State. 
She  is  also,  I  am  told,  thrifty,  inclined  to  religion,  a  vege- 
tarian, Vichy  water  her  only  beverage ;  in  fact,  a  credit  to 
her  profession  and  externally  ...  to  ours. 

MR.  STATE  hands  back  the  hat,  with  the  solemnest 
humour. 

MR.  STATE.  Mr.  Windlesham,  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you  for  this  illuminating  anecdote. 

WINDLESHAM.  Not  at  all.  .  .  .  Will  you  see  the  other 
three? 

MR.  STATE.     By  all  means. 

WINDLESHAM.    They   won't   be  long  in  changing  .  .  . 
but  there's  one  I  must  just  pin  on. 
MR.  STATE.     No  hurry. 

He  has  acquired  a  new  joy  in  WINDLESHAM,  whom 
he  watches  dance  away.  Then  a  song  is  heard  from 
the  next  room  .  .  . 

WINDLESHAM.  Allons  .  .  .  numero  cinq  .  .  .  numero 
sept  .  .  .  numero  dix.  Ma'moiselle  Ollivier  .  .  .  vous 
vous  mettrez  .  .  . 

And  the  door  closes.    PHILIP  looks  at  his  watch. 
PHILIP.     But  it's  ten  past  three.    We'd  better  not  wait 
for  my  father. 

They  surround  the  table  and  sit  down. 
MR.  STATE.    Major  Thomas,  have  you  my  memoranda? 
THOMAS.     Here. 

He  hands  them  to  STATE,  who  clears  his  throat, 
refrains  from  spitting,  and  begins  the  customary 
American  oration. 

MR.  STATE.  The  scheme,  gentlemen,  for  which  I  desire 
to  purchase  the  Madras  House  and  add  it  to  the  interest 
of  the  Burrows  enterprise,  which  I  already  control,  is — 
to  put  it  shortly — this.  The  Burrows  provincial  scheme — 


ACT  ra]         THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  83 

you  are  aware  of  its  purpose — goes  well  enough  as  far  as 
the  shareholding  by  the  local  drapery  stores  is  concerned. 
It  has  been  interesting  to  me  to  discover  which  aspects 
of  the  Burrows  scheme  suit  which  cities  .  .  .  and  why. 
An  absorbing  problem  in  the  psychology  of  local  condi- 
tions !  Now,  we  have  eliminated  from  the  mass  a  con- 
siderable number  of  cases  where  the  local  people  will  not 
join  with  us.  And  in  your  Leicesters  and  Norwiches  and 
Plymouths  and  Coventrys  .  .  .  there  the  unknown  name, 
the  uninspiring  name  of  Burrows,  upon  a  fire-new  estab- 
lishment next  door  might  anyhow  be  ineffective.  But 
beyond  that  I  have  a  reason  .  .  .  and  I  hope  a  not  unin- 
teresting reason,  to  put  before  you  gentlemen  .  .  .  why 
it  is  in  these  provincial  centres  that  we  should  look  to 
establish  our  Madras  Houses  .  .  .  New  Edition.  Is  that 
clear  so  far? 

During  this  MR.  CONSTANTINE  MADRAS  has  arrived. 
He  turned  aside  for  a  moment  to  the  door  that  the 
models  came  from,  now  he  joins  the  group.  A  man 
of  sixty,  to  whom  sixty  is  the  prime  of  life.  Tall, 
quite  dramatically  dignified,  suave,  a  little  remote; 
he  is  one  of  those  to  whom  life  is  an  art  of  which 
they  have  determined  to  be  master.  It  is  a  hand- 
some face,  Eastern  in  type,  the  long  beard  only 
streaked  with  grey.  He  docs  not  dress  like  the 
ruck  of  men,  because  he  is  not  of  them.  The  velvet 
coat,  brick-red  tie,  shepherd' 's-plaid  trousers,  white 
spats  and  patent  boots,  both  suit  him  and  express 
him  subtly  and  well — the  mixture  of  sensuous  origi- 
nality and  tradition  which  is  the  man.  PHILIP  is 
purposely  casual  in  greeting  him;  he  has  sighted 
him  first.  But  MR.  STATE  gets  up,  impressed.  It  is 
part  of  his  creed  to  recognise  greatness;  he  insists 
on  recognising  it. 
PHILIP.  Hullo,  Father! 


84  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  ra 

MR.  STATE.    Mr.  Madras !    Proud  to  meet  you  again. 
CONSTANTINE.     [Graciously,  without  emotion.']    How  do 
you  do,  Mr.  State. 

PHILIP.  You  know  everyone,  Father.  Oh  .  .  .  Hip- 
pisly  Thomas. 

CONSTANTINE.  [Just  as  graciously.']  How  do  you  do, 
sir.  [Then,  with  a  mischievous  smile,  he  pats  HUXTABLE 
on  the  shoulder."]  How  are  you,  my  dear  Harry? 

MR.  HUXTABLE  had  heard  him  coming,  and  felt  him- 
self turn  purple.  This  was  the  great  meeting  after 
thirty  years!  He  had  let  it  come  upon  him  un- 
awares; purposely  let  it,  for  indeed  he  had  not 
known  what  to  say  or  do.  He  had  dreaded  having 
the  inspiration  to  say  or  do  anything.  Now,  alas, 
and  thank  goodness!  it  is  too  late.  He  is  at  a  suit- 
able disadvantage.  He  need  only  grunt  out  sulk- 
ily  ... 
MR.  HUXTABLE.  I'm  quite  well,  thank  you. 

CONSTANTINE,  with  one  more  pat  in  pardon  for  the 
rudeness,  goes  to  his  chair. 
MR.  STATE.    A  pleasant  trip  on  the  continent? 
CONSTANTINE.    Instructive.    Don't  let  me  interrupt  bus- 
iness.   I  shall  pick  up  tke  thread. 

MR.  STATE.  [Serving  up  a  little  re-warmed  oration.'}  I 
was  just  proceeding  to  place  on  the  table-cloth  some  pre- 
liminary details  of  the  scheme  that  has  been  elaborating 
since  our  meeting  in  June  last  to  consolidate  your  name 
and  fame  in  some  of  the  most  important  cities  of  England. 
We  had  not  got  far. 

He  consults  his  notes.    CONSTANTINE  produces  from 
a  case  a  slender  cigarette  holder  of  amber. 
CONSTANTINE.     You've  some  new  models,  Phil. 
PHILIP.    Yes. 

CONSTANTINE.  The  tall  girl  looks  well  enough.  May  I 
smoke  ? 


ACT  ra]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  85 

MR.  STATE.    Allow  me.     [Whipping  out  his  cigar  case.] 

CONSTANTINE.     A  cigarette,  thank  you,  of  my  own. 

He  proceeds  to  make  and  light  one.  MR.  STATE 
offers  cigars  generally,  and  then  'places  one  to  his 
own  hand. 

MR.  STATE.  I  occasionally  derive  some  pleasure  from  a 
cold  cigar.  I  was  not  for  the  moment  entering  upon  the 
finance  of  the  matter  because  I  entertain  no  doubt  that 
.  .  .  possibly  with  a  little  adjustment  of  the  proportion  of 
shares  and  cash  .  .  .  that  can  be  fixed. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [In  emulation  of  all  this  ease  and 
grace.']  I'll  ave  a  cigarette,  Phil  ...  if  you've  got  one. 

PHILIP  has  one.  And  every  one  makes  himself 
comfortable,  while  MR.  STATE  continues  enjoy- 
ably  .  .  . 

MR.  STATE.  And  I  suspect  that  you  are  no  more  inter- 
ested in  money  than  I  am,  Mr.  Madras.  Anyone  can  make 
money,  if  he  has  capital  enough.  The  little  that  I  have 
came  from  lumber  and  canned  peaches.  Now,  there  was 
poetry  in  lumber.  The  virgin  forest  ...  I'd  go  sit  in  it 
for  weeks  at  a  time.  There  was  poetry  in  peaches  .  .  . 
before  they  were  canned.  Do  you  wonder  why  I  bought 
that  mantle  establishment  in  the  city? 

PHILIP.  [Who  is  only  sorry  that  sometime  he  must 
stop.~\  Why,  Mr.  State? 

MR.  STATE.  Because,  Mr.  Philip,  I  found  myself  a 
lonely  man.  I  felt  the  need  of  getting  into  touch  with 
what  Goethe  refers  to  as  the  woman-spirit  .  .  .  drawing 
us  ever  upward  and  on.  That  opportunity  occurred,  and 
it  seemed  a  businesslike  way  of  doing  the  trick. 

CONSTANTINE.  [Through  a  little  cloud  of  smoke.]  And 
satisfying? 

MR.  STATE.    I  beg  your  pardon? 

CONSTANTINE.  Has  the  ready-made  skirt  business  sat- 
isfied your  craving  for  the  eternal  feminine? 


86  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  in 

MR.  STATE.  Mr.  Madras  .  .  .  that  sarcasm  is  deserved 
.  .  No,  sir,  it  has  not.  The  Burrows  business,  I  discover, 
lacks  all  inner  meaning  ...  it  has  no  soul.  A  business 
can  no  more  exist  without  a  soul  than  a  human  being 
can.  I'm  sure  I  have  you  with  me  there,  Mr.  Huxtable. 

Poor  MR.   HUXTABLE  quite  chokes  at  the  sudden- 
ness of  this  summons,  but  shines  his  best. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     I  should  say  so,  quite. 
MR.  STATE  begins  to  glow. 

MR.  STATE.  There  was  fun,  mind  you  .  .  .  there  still 
is  ...  in  making  these  provincial  milliners  hop  .  .  .  put- 
ting a  pistol  to  their  heads  .  .  .  saying  Buy  our  Goods 
or  be  Froze  Out.  That  keeps  me  lively  and  it  wakes  them 
up  ...  does  them  good.  But  Burrows  isn't  in  the  Move- 
ment. The  Woman's  Movement.  The  Great  Modern 
Woman's  Movement.  It  has  come  home  to  me  that  the 
man,  who  has  as  much  to  do  with  Woman  as  manufactur- 
ing the  bones  of  her  corsets  and  yet  is  not  consciously  in 
that  Movement  is  Outside  History.  Shovelling  goods  over 
a  counter  and  adding  up  profits  .  .  .  that's  no  excuse  for 
cumbering  the  earth  .  .  .  nothing  personal,  Mr.  Huxtable. 
MR.  HUXTABLE  is  ready  this  time. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  No,  no  .  .  .  I'm  listening  to  you.  I'm 
not  too  old  to  learn. 

MR.  STATE.  Mind,  I  don't  say  I  haven't  taken  pleasure 
in  Burrows.  We've  had  Notions  .  .  .  caused  two  Ideas 
to  spring  where  one  sprung  before.  There  was  Not- 
tingham. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  I  know  Nottingham  .  .  .  got  a  shop 
there? 

MR.  STATE.  {With  ivholesome  pride. ,]  In  two  years  the 
Burrows  establishment  in  Nottingham  has  smashed  com- 
petition. I've  not  visited  the  city  myself.  The  notion 
was  our  local  manager's.  Simple.  The  Ladies'  depart- 
ment served  by  gentlemen  .  .  .  the  Gentlemen's  by  ladies. 


ACT  in]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  87 

Always,  of  course,  within  the  bounds  of  delicacy.  Do 
you  think  there  is  nothing  in  that,  Mr.  Huxtable? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Round-eyed  and  open-mouthed.']  Oh 
.  .  .  well  .  .  . 

MR.  STATE.     But  are  you  the  Mean  Sensual  Man? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  \Whose  knowledge  of  the  French  lan- 
guage hardly  assists  him  to  this  startling  translation.'} 
No  ...  I  hope  not. 

MR.  STATE.  Put  yourself  in  his  place.  Surrounded  by 
pretty  girls  .  .  .  good  girls,  mind  you  .  .  .  high  class. 
Pay  them  well  ...  let  them  live  out  .  .  .  pay  for  their 
mothers  and  chaperons,  if  necessary.  Well  .  .  .  Sur- 
rounded by  Gracious  Womanhood,  does  the  Sensual  Man 
forget  how  much  money  he  is  spending  or  does  he  not? 
Does  he  come  again  ?  Is  it  a  little  Oasis  in  the  desert  of 
his  business  day?  Is  it  a  better  attraction  than  Alcohol, 
or  is  it  not? 

PHILIP.     [Bitingly.]    Is  it? 

MR.  STATE.  Then,  sir  ...  Audi  Alteram  Partem.  I 
should  like  you  to  see  our  Ladies'  Fancy  Department  at 
its  best  .  .  .  just  before  the  football  season. 

PHILIP.     I  think  I  do ! 

MR.  STATE.  Athletes  everyone  of  em  ...  not  a  man 
under  six  foot  .  .  .  bronzed,  noble  fellows !  And  no  flirt- 
ing allowed  ...  no  making  eyes  ...  no  pandering  to 
anything  Depraved.  Just  the  Ordinary  Courtesies  of  our 
Modern  Civilisation  from  Pure,  Clean-minded  Gentlemen 
towards  any  of  the  Fair  Sex  who  step  in  to  buy  a  shilling 
sachet  or  the  like.  And  pay,  sir  ...  The  women  come 
in  flocks! 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Bereft  of  breath.']  Is  this  how  you 
mean  to  run  your  new  Madras  Houses? 

MR.  STATE.  Patience,  Mr.  Huxtable.  It's  but  six  months 
ago  that  I  started  to  study  the  Woman  Question  from 
the  point  of  view  of  Burrows  and  Co.  I  attended  women's 


88  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  in 

meetings   in   London,   in   Manchester,   and   in   one-horse 
places  as  well.     Now,  Political  claims  were  but  the  nar- 
rowest, drabbest  aspect  of  the  matter  as  I  saw  it.     The 
Woman's  Movement  is  Woman  expressing  herself.     Let 
us  look  at  things  as  they  are.    What  are  a  Woman's  chief 
means  .  .  .  how  often  her  only  means  of  expressing  her- 
self?   Anyway  .  .  .  what  is  the  first  thing  that  she  spends 
her  money  on  ?    Clothes,  gentlemen,  clothes.    Therefore, 
I  say  .  .  .  though  at  Cannon   Street  we  may  palp  with 
good  ideas  .  .  .  the  ready-made  skirt  is  out  of  date  .  .  . 
WINDLESHAM,  pins  in  his  mouth,  fashion  plates  un- 
der his  arm,  and  the  fish-basket  hat  in  his  hand, 
shoots  out  of  the  other  room. 

WINDLESHAM.  Will  you  have  the  others  in  now  ?  [Then 
back  through  the  door.']  Aliens,  Mesmoiselles  si  vous 
plait.  Numero  cinq  le  premier.  [Then  he  turns  the  hat 
upside  down  on  the  table.~\  I  thought  you'd  like  to  see 
that  they've  actually  left  the  handles  on.  But  I  don't 
think  we  can  do  that  here,  do  you? 

There  comes  in  as  before  the  most  elaborate  eve- 
ning gown  that  ever  was. 

WINDLESHAM.  [As  he  searches  for  the  design.]  Nu- 
mero cinq  .  .  .  number  five. 

THOMAS  is  much  struck. 
THOMAS.     I  say  ...  by  Jove! 

But  the  cold,  searching  light  seems  to  separate  from 
the  glittering  pink  affair  the  poor,  pretty,  smiling 
creature  exhibiting  it,  until,  indeed,  she  seems  half 
naked.  MR.  WINDLESHAM'S  cesthetic  sense  is  out- 
raged. 

WINDLESHAM.  Mais  non,  mais  non  .  .  .  pas  en  plein 
jour.  Mettez  vous  par  la  dans  le  .  .  .  dans  1'alcove  .  .  . 
a  cote  du  velours  noir. 

The  costume  undulates  towards  the  black  velvet 
platform.  THOMAS  is  lost  in  admiration. 


ACT  in]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  89 

THOMAS.     That  gives  her  a  chance,  don't  it?     Damn 
pretty  girl ! 

PHILIP.     [His  eye  twinkling.']     She'll  understand  that, 
Tommy. 

THOMAS,     [In  good  faith.']     She  won't  mind. 
MR.  STATE.     [Who  has  been  studying  the  undulations.] 
How  they  learn  to  walk  like  it  ...  that's  what  beats  me ! 
MR.  WINDLESHAM  turns  on  the  frame  of  lights  which 
bear  upon  the  velvet  platform.     The  vision  of  fe- 
male loveliness  is  now  complete. 
WINDLESHAM.     There  .  .  .  that's  the  coup  d'oeil. 

The  vision  turns  this  way  and  that  to  show  what 
curves  of  loveliness  there  may  be.  They  watch,  all 
but  CONSTANTINE,  who  has  sat  silent  and  indifferent, 
rolling  his  second  cigarette,  which  he  now  smokes 
serenely.  At  last  PHILIP'S  voice  breaks  in,  at  its 
coolest,  its  most  ironic. 

PHILIP.    And  are  we  to  assume,  Mr.  State,  that  this 
piece  of  self-decoration  really  expresses  the  nature  of  any 
woman  ?     Rather  an  awful  thought ! 
THOMAS.     [In  protest.}     Why? 

PHILIP.     Or  if  it  expresses  a  man's  opinion  of  her  .  .  . 
that's  rather  worse. 

THOMAS.     It's  damned  smart.    Ain't  it,  Mr.  Huxtable? 
MR.  HUXTABLE.     [Who  is  examining  closely.]   No  use  to 
us,  of  course.     We  couldn't  imitate   that  under   fifteen 
guineas.    Look  at  the  .  .  .  what  d'you  call  it? 

WINDLESHAM.     [Loving  the  very  word.]    Diamante. 
THOMAS.      [With   discretion.]      Just    for    England,    of 
course,  you  might  have  the  shiny  stuff  marking  a  bit  more 
definitely  where  the  pink  silk  ends  and  she  begins. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     [Not  to  be  sordid.]     But  it's  a  beauti- 
ful thing. 

MR.  STATE.     [Sweepingly.]     Fitted  to  adorn  the  presid- 
ing genius  of  some  intellectual  and  artistic  salon.     More 


90  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  m 

artistic  than  intellectual,  perhaps  .  .  .  more  likely  to  be 
the  centre  of  Emotion  than  Thought! 

WINDLESHAM.  I  could  almost  tell  you  who  we  shall 
sell  that  to.  Mrs.  .  .  .  Mrs.  .  .  .  dear  me  .  .  .  you'd  all 
know  the  name.  Assez,  Mamoiselle  .  .  .  sortez. 

He  turns  off  the  light.  The  vision  becomes  once 
more  a  ridiculously  expensive  dress,  with  a  rather 
thin  and  shivering  young  person  half  inside  it,  who 
is  thus  unceremoniously  got  rid  of. 

WINDLESHAM.     Numero  sept. 
Another  costume. 

MR.  STATE.  Now  here  again.  Green  velvet.  Is  it 
velvet  ? 

WINDLESHAM.    Panne  velvet.    Promenez,  s'il  vous  plait. 

MR.  STATE.     And  ermine. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     Good  Lord  .  .  .  more  buttons ! 

MR.  STATE.  The  very  thing,  no  doubt,  in  which  some 
peeress  might  take  the  chair  at  a  drawing-room  meeting. 

PHILIP.  [As  he  eyes  the  buttons  and  the  ermine. ,] 
Either  of  the  Humanitarian  or  of  the  Anti-Sweating 
League.  Indeed,  no  peeress  could  dream  of  taking  a  chair 
without  it. 

MR.  STATE.     [In  gentle  reproof. .]     Sarcasm,  Mr.  Philip. 

PHILIP.  [Won  by  such  sweetness.]  I  really  beg  your 
pardon. 

WINDLESHAM.     Numero  dix. 
A  third  costume. 

PHILIP.    What  about  this? 

MR.  STATE.  Grey  with  a  touch  of  pink  .  .  .  severely 
soft  An  Anti-suffrage  Platform. 

PHILIP.  [In  tune  with  him.']  No  .  .  .  it's  cut  square 
in  the  neck.  Suffrage,  I  should  say. 

MR.  STATE.  [Rubbing  his  hands.]  Good!  There  is 
purpose  in  this  persiflage,  Major  Thomas.  Woman  al- 


ACT  ni]         THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  91 

lures  us  along  many  paths.  Be  it  ours  to  attend  her,  doing 
what  service  we  may. 

CONSTANTINE.     You  are  a  poet,  Mr.  State. 

MR.  STATE.     I  never  wrote  one  in  my  life,  sir. 

CONSTANTINE.  How  many  poets  should  cease  scribbling 
and  try  to  live  such  perfect  epics  as  seems  likely  to  be  this 
purchase  of  yours  of  the  Madras  House ! 

MR.  STATE.  [Much  gratified.']  I  shall  be  proud  to  be 
your  successor.  [Then  he  soars.']  But  it  is  the  Middle 
Class  Woman  of  England  that  is  waiting  for  me.  The 
woman  who  still  sits  at  the  Parlour  window  of  her  Pro- 
vincial Villa,  pensively  gazing  through  the  Laurel  bushes. 
I  have  seen  her  on  my  Solitary  Walks.  She  must  have 
her  chance  to  Dazzle  and  Conquer.  That  is  every  wom- 
an's birthright  ...  be  she  a  Duchess  in  Mayfair  or  a 
doctor's  wife  in  the  suburbs  of  Leicester.  And  remem- 
ber, gentlemen,  that  the  Middle  Class  Women  of  England 
.  .  .  think  of  them  in  bulk  .  .  .  they  form  one  of  the 
greatest  Money  Spending  Machines  the  world  has  ever 
seen. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [With  a  wag  of  the  head;  he  is  more  at 
his  ease  now.]  Yes  .  .  .  their  husbands'  money. 

MR.  STATE.  [Taking  a  long  breath  and  a  high  tone.'} 
All  our  most  advanced  thinkers  are  agreed  that  the  eco- 
nomic independence  of  women  is  the  next  step  in  the 
march  of  civilisation. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Overwhelmed.']  Oh  ...  I  beg  par- 
don. 

MR.  STATE.  [Soaring  now  more  than  ever.]  And  now 
that  the  Seed  of  Freedom  is  sown  in  their  Sweet  Natures 
.  .  .  what  Mighty  Forest  .  .  .  what  a  Luxuriant,  Trop- 
ical, Scented  growth  of  Womanhood  may  not  spring  up 
around  us.  For  we  live  in  an  Ugly  World.  Look  at  my 
tie!  Consider  your  vest,  Major  Thomas!  [His  eye 
searches  for  those  costumes,  and  finds  one.]  This  is  all 


92  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  ui 

the  Living  Beauty  that  there  is.  We  want  more  of  it.  I 
want  to  see  that  Poor  Provincial  Lady  burst  through  the 
laurel  bushes  and  dash  down  the  road  .  .  .  Clad  in  Col- 
ours of  the  Rainbow. 

WINDLESHAM  has  indeed  detained  the  severely  soft 
costume  and  its  young  lady,  and  there  she  has  stood 
for  a  while,  still  smiling,  but  wondering,  perhaps, 
behind  the  smile,  into  what  peculiar  company  of 
milliners  she  has  fallen.    THOMAS,  suddenly  noticing 
that  she  is  standing  there,  with  the  utmost  polite- 
ness jumps  up  to  hand  his  chair. 
THOMAS.     I  say,  though  .  .  .  allow  me. 
WINDLESHAM.    Thank  you  .  .  .  but  she  can't.     Not  in 
that  corset. 

MR.  STATE.  Dear  me,  I  had  not  meant  to  detain  Madem- 
oiselle. [Then  to  amend  his  manners,  and  rather  as  if  it 
were  an  incantation  warranted  to  achieve  his  purpose."] 
Bon  jour. 

The  young  lady  departs,  a  real  smile  quite  shaming 
the  unreal. 

MR.  STATE.    You  clean  forget  they're  there.     We  gave 
some  time  and  money  to  elaborating  a  mechanical  moving 
figure  to  take  the  place  of  ...  a  real  automaton,  in  fact. 
But  sometimes  it  stuck  and  sometimes  it  ran  away  .  .  . 
THOMAS.    And  the  cost! 

PHILIP.     [Finely.']     Flesh  and  blood  is  always  cheaper. 
MR.  STATE.    You  approve  of  corsets,  Mr.  Windlesham? 
WINDLESHAM.    Oh,  yes  .  .  .  the  figure  is  the  woman, 
as  we  say. 

MR.  STATE.  Have  you  ever  gone  deeply  into  the  Psy- 
chology of  the  question?  A  while  ago  I  had  a  smart 
young  Historian  write  Burrows  a  little  Monograph  on 
Corsets  .  .  .  price  one  shilling.  Conservative,  summing 
up  in  their  favour.  And  we  made  up  a  little  Museum  of 
them  ...  at  Southampton,  I  think  .  .  .  but  that  was  not 


ACT  in]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  98 

a  success.  Major  Thomas  ...  we  must  send  Mr.  Win- 
dlesham  a  copy  of  that  Monograph.  You  will  find  it  very 
interesting. 

WINDLESHAM.  I'm  sure  I  shall.  Can  I  do  any  more 
for  you  ? 

PHILIP.     See  me  before  I  go,  will  you? 

WINDLESHAM.    Then  it's  au'voir. 

And  he  flutters  away.  There  is  a  pause  as  if  they 
had  to  recollect  where  they  were.  It  is  broken  by 
PHILIP  saying,  meditatively. 

PHILIP.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  we  realise  what  wom- 
en's clothes  are  like  ...  or  our  own,  for  that  matter. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     What's  that? 

PHILIP.  Have  you  ever  tried  to  describe  a  costume  as 
it  would  appear  to  a  strange  eye?  Can  you  think  of  this 
last?  A  hat  as  little  like  a  hat  as  anything  on  a  crea- 
ture's head  may  be.  Lace.  Flowers  of  a  colour  it  never 
pleases  God  to  grow  them.  And  a  jewelled  feather  .  .  . 
a  feather  with  stones  in  it.  The  rest  might  be  called  a 
conspiracy  in  three  colours  on  the  part  of  a  dozen  sewing 
women  to  persuade  you  that  the  creature  they  have  clothed 
can  neither  walk,  digest  her  food,  nor  bear  children.  Now 
.  .  .  can  that  be  beautiful? 

MR.  STATE.  [To  whom  this  is  the  real  conversational 
thing.']  Mr.  Philip,  that  notion  is  a  lever  thrust  beneath 
the  very  foundations  of  Society. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Showing  off  a  little.']  Oh  ...  trying 
to  upset  people's  ideas  for  the  sake  of  doing  it  ...  silly. 

THOMAS.  [With  solid  sense.]  I  think  a  crowd  of  well- 
dressed  women  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  in  the 
world. 

PHILIP.  Have  you  ever  seen  an  Eastern  woman  walk 
into  a  Bond  Street  tea  shop? 

THOMAS.     No. 

PHILIP.     [Forcefully.']    I  have. 


94  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  m 

CONSTANTINE.      Ah  ! 

With  one  long,  meditative  exhalation  he  sends  a 
little  column  of  smoke  into  the  air.  MR.  STATE  turns 
to  him  deferentially. 

MR.  STATE.  We  are  boring  you,  Mr.  Madras,  I'm  afraid 
You  were  Facile  Princeps  upon  all  these  questions  so 
long  ago. 

CONSTANTINE  speaks  in  the  smoothest  of  voicts. 
CONSTANTINE.     No,  I  am  not  bored,  Mr.  State  .  .  .  only 
a  little  horrified. 

MR.   STATE.       Why  SO? 

CONSTANTINE.  You  see  ...  I  am  a  Mahommedan  .  .  . 
and  this  attitude  towards  the  other  sex  has  become  loath- 
some to  me. 

This  bombshell,  so  delicately  exploded,  affects  the 
company  very  variously.  It  will  be  some  time  be- 
fore MR.  HUXTABLE  grasps  its  meaning  at  all. 
THOMAS  simply  opens  his  mouth.  MR.  STATE  has 
evidently  found  a  new  joy  in  life.  PHILIP,  to  whom 
it  seems  no  news,  merely  says  in  light  protest  .  .  . 
PHILIP.  My  dear  Father! 

MR.  STATE.  [As  he  beams  round.]  A  r  e  a  1  Mahom- 
medan ? 

CONSTANTINE.  I  have  become  a  Mahommedan.  If 
you  were  not,  it  would  be  inconvenient  to  live  perma- 
nently at  Hit  ...  a  village  upon  the  borders  of  Southern 
Arabia  .  .  .  that  is  my  home.  Besides,  I  was  converted. 
THOMAS.  [Having  recovered  enough  breath.']  I  didn't 
know  you  could  become  a  Mahommedan. 

CONSTANTINE.  [With  some  severity.]  You  can  become 
a  Christian,  sir. 

THOMAS.  [A  little  shocked.]  Ah  ...  not  quite  the 
same  sort  of  thing. 

MR.  STATE.  [Who  feels  that  he  really  is  re-discovering 
the  old  world.]  But  how  very  interesting !  To  a  broad- 


ACT  in]         THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  95 

minded  man  .  .  .  how  extraordinarily  interesting !     Was 
it  a  sudden  conversion? 

CONSTANTINE.  No  ...  I  had  been  searching  for  a  re- 
ligion ...  a  common  need  in  these  times  .  .  .  and  this 
is  a  very  fine  one,  Mr.  State. 

MR.  STATE.  Is  it?  I  must  look  it  up.  The  Koran  !  Yes, 
I've  never  read  the  Koran  ...  an  oversight. 

He  makes  a  mental  note.  And  slowly,  slowly,  the 
•full  iniquity  of  it  has  sunk  into  MR.  HUXTABLE. 
His  face  has  gone  from  red  to  white  and  back 
again  to  red.  He  becomes  articulate  and  vehement. 
He  thumps  the  table. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     And  what  about  Amelia? 
MR.  STATE.     [With  conciliatory  calm.]    Who  is  Amelia? 
PHILIP.    Afterwards,  Uncle. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Thumping  again.]  What  about  your 
wife?  No,  I  won't  be  quiet,  Phil !  It's  illegal. 

CONSTANTINE.  [With  a  half-cold,  half-kindly  eye  on 
him]  Harry  ...  I  dislike  to  sec  you  make  yourself  ri- 
diculous. 

Only  this  was  needed. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Who  cares  if  I'm  ridiculous?  I've  not 
spoken  to  you  for  thirty  years  .  .  .  have  I  ?  That  is  ... 
I've  not  taken  more  notice  of  you  than  I  could  help.  And 
I  come  here  to-day  full  of  forgiveness  .  .  .  and  curiosity 
...  to  see  what  you're  really  like  now  .  .  .  and  whether 
I've  changed  my  mind  ...  or  whether  I  never  really  felt 
all  that  about  you  at  all  ...  and  damned  if  you  don't  go 
and  put  up  a  fresh  game  on  me !  What  about  Amelia  ? 
Religion  this  time!  Mahommedan,  indeed  ...  at  your 
age!  Can't  you  ever  settle  down?  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mr.  State.  All  right,  Phil,  afterwards!  I've  not  done 
.  .  .  but  you're  quite  right  .  .  .  afterwards. 

The  gust  over,  MR.  STATE,  who  is  a  little  be-blown 


06  THE    MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  m 

by  it  at  such  close  quarters,  says,  partly  with  a 
Peace-making  intention,  partly  in  curiosity  .  .  . 
MR.  STATE.     But  do  you  indulge  in  a  Harem? 

MR.  HUXTABLE  is  on  his  feet,  righteously  strepitant. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.     If  you  insult  my  sister  by  answering 
that  question  .  .  . 

With  a  look  and  a  gesture  CONSTANTINE  can  silence 
him.     Then  -with  the  coldest  dignity  he  replies  .  .  . 
CONSTANTINE.     My  household,  sir,  is  that  of  the  ordi- 
nary Eastern  gentleman  of  my  position.    We  do  not  speak 
of  our  women  in  public. 

MR.  STATE.  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon. 
CONSTANTINE.  Not  at  all.  It  is  five  years  since  I  defi- 
nitely retired  from  business  and  decided  to  consummate 
my  affection  for  the  East  by  settling  down  there.  This 
final  visit  to  Europe  .  .  .  partly  to  see  you,  Mr.  State 
.  .  .  was  otherwise  only  to  confirm  my  judgment  on  the 
question. 

MR.  STATE.      Has  it? 

CONSTANTINE.  It  has.  I  was  always  out  of  place  amongst 
you.  I  was  sometimes  tempted  to  regret  my  scandalous 
conduct  ,  .  .  [A  slight  stir  from  MR.  HUXTABLE.]  Hush, 
Harry  .  .  .  hush !  But  I  never  could  persuade  myself  to 
amend  it.  It  is  some  slight  personal  satisfaction  to  me 
to  discover  .  .  .  with  a  stranger's  eye  .  .  .  that  Europe 
in  its  attitude  towards  women  is  mad. 

MR.  STATE.    Mad! 

CONSTANTINE.       Mad. 

THOMAS.     {Who  is  all  ears.~\    I  say  ! 

CONSTANTINE.  You  possibly  agree  with  me,  Major 
Thomas. 

THOMAS.  [Much  taken  aback.'}  No  ...  I  don't  think 
so. 

CONSTANTINE.  Many  men  do,  but — poor  fellows — they 
dare  not  say  so.  For  instance,  Mr.  State,  what  can  be 


ACT  m]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  97 

said  of  a  community  in  which  five  men  of  some  ability  and 
dignity  are  met  together  to  traffic  in  ...  what  was  the 
Numero  of  that  aphrodisiac  that  so  particularly  attracted 
Major  Thomas? 

THOMAS  is  shocked  even  to  violence. 

THOMAS.     No  .  .  .  really.     I  protest 

MR.  STATE.  [Utterly  calm.]  Easy,  Major  Thomas.  Let 
us  consider  the  accusation  philosophically.  [Then  with 
the  sweetest  smile.']  Surely  that  is  a  gross  construction 
to  put  on  the  instinct  of  every  beautiful  woman  to  adorn 
herself. 

CONSTANTINE.  Why  gross?  I  delight  in  pretty  women, 
prettily  adorned.  To  come  home  after  a  day's  work  to 
the  welcome  of  one's  women  folk  ...  to  find  them  un- 
harassed  by  notions  of  business  or  politics  .  .  .  ready  to 
refresh  one's  spirit  by  attuning  it  to  the  gentler,  sweeter 
side  of  life  .  .  . 

THOMAS.  [Making  hearty  atonement.']  Oh !  Quite  so 
.  .  .  quite  so. 

CONSTANTINE.  I  thought  you  would  agree  with  me, 
Major  Thomas.  That  is  the  Mahommedan  gentleman's 
domestic  ideal. 

THOMAS.     [Brought  up  short.']     Is  it? 

CONSTANTINE.  But  you  don't  expect  to  find  your  wife 
dressed  like  that  .  .  .  the  diamante  and  the  .  .  . 

THOMAS.  [Mental  discomfort  growing  on  him."]  No 
.  .  .  that  was  a  going  out  dress. 

PHILIP.  [Greatly  enjoying  this  contest.']  Oh  ... 
Tommy !  Tommy ! 

THOMAS.  [In  tortuosity  of  mind — and  conscience.] 
But  I  tell  you  if  my  wife  would  .  .  .  that  is,  if  any  chap's 
wife  will  ...  I  mean  .  .  .  [Then  he  gets  it  out.]  If 
a  woman  always  kept  herself  smart  and  attractive  at  home 
then  a  man  would  have  no  excuse  for  gadding  about  after 
other  women. 


93  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  ra 

MR.  HUXTABLE  joins  the  fray,  suddenly,  snappily. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  She  sits  looking  after  his  children  .  .  . 
what  more  does  he  want  of  her? 

CONSTANTINE.  Harry  is  a  born  husband,  Major  Thomas. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     I'm  not  a  born  libertine,  I  hope. 

THOMAS.     Libertine  be  damned. 

MR.  STATE.  [Pacifically.]  Gentlemen,  gentlemen  .  .  . 
these  are  abstract  propositions. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Gadding  after  another  man's  wife,  per- 
haps! Though  I  don't  think  you  ever  did  that,  Constan- 
tine  .  .  .  I'll  do  you  justice  ...  I  don't  think  you  ever 
did. 

CONSTANTINE.    I  never  did. 

PHILIP.  [With  intense  mischief  J]  Oh,  Tommy,  Tommy 
.  .  .  can  you  say  the  same? 

THOMAS  is  really  flabbergasted  at  the  indecency. 

THOMAS.  Phil,  that  ain't  nice  .  .  .  that  ain't  gentle- 
manly. And  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,  and  you  know  I 
wasn't.  And  ...  we  ain't  all  so  unattractive  to  women 
as  you  are. 

MR.  STATE  loses  himself  in  enjoyment  of  this  rep- 
artee. 

MR.  STATE.  Ah  ...  Sour  Grapes,  Mr.  Philip.  We 
mustn't  be  personal  .  .  .  but  is  it  Sour  Grapes? 

PHILIP.  [Very  coolly  on  his  defence.]  Thank  you, 
Tommy  ...  I  can  attract  just  the  sort  of  woman  I  want 
to  attract.  But  as  long  as  it's  Numero  Cinq,  Six  or  Sept 
that  attracts  you  .  .  .  well  ...  so  long  will  Madras 
Houses  be  an  excellent  investment  for  Mr.  State. 

That  is  the  end  of  that  little  breeze,  and  CONSTAN- 
TINE'S  voice  completes  the  quieting. 

CONSTANTINE.  Phil  is  a.  cold-blooded  egotist,  and  if 
women  like  him  that  is  their  misfortune.  I  know  his 
way  with  a  woman  .  .  .  coax  her  on  to  the  intellectual 
plane,  where  he  thinks  he  can  better  her.  You  have  my 


ACT  m]         THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  99 

sympathy,  Major  Thomas.  I  also  am  as  susceptible  as 
Nature  means  a  man  to  be  ...  as  all  women  must  wish 
him  to  be.  And  I  referred  to  these  going  out  dresses  be- 
cause— candidly — I  found  myself  obliged  to  leave  a  coun- 
try where  women  are  let  loose  with  money  to  spend  a)nd 
time  to  waste.  Encouraged  to  flaunt  their  charms  on  the 
very  streets  .  .  .  proud  if  they  see  the  busmen  wink  .  .  . 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Not  busmen.  [He  is  only  gently  depre- 
cating now.] 

CONSTANTINE.  Proud,  my  dear  Harry,  if  they  see  a 
cabman  smile. 

MR.  HUXTABLE  looks  around,  and  then  nods  solemnly 
and  thoughtfully. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Yes,  it's  true.  I'd  deny  it  any  other 
time,  but  I've  been  thinking  a  bit  lately  .  .  .  and  the 
things  you  think  of  once  you  start  to  think !  And  it's  true. 
[But  with  great  chivalry.]  Only  they  don't  know  they  do 
it.  They  don't  know  they  do  it.  [Then  a  doubt  occurring.'} 
D'you  think  they  know  they  do  it,  Phil? 

PHILIP.     Some  of  them  suspect,  Uncle. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [His  faith  unspoiled.]  No,  what  I  say 
is  it's  Instinct  .  .  .  and  we've  just  got  to  be  as  nice- 
minded  about  it  as  we  can.  There  was  Julia,  this  summer 
at  Weymouth  .  .  .  that's  one  of  my  daughters.  Bought 
herself  a  dress  .  .  .  not  one  of  the  Numero  sort,  of  course 
.  .  .  but  very  pretty  .  .  .  orange  colour,  it  was  .  .  . 
stripes.  But  you  could  see  it  a  mile  off  on  the  parade  .  .  . 
and  her  sisters  all  with  their  noses  out  of  joint.  I  said 
to  myself  .  .  .  Instinct  .  .  . 

Suddenly  MR.  STATE  rescues  the  discussion. 

MR.  STATE.  Yes,  sir  .  .  .  the  noblest  Instinct  of  all  ... 
the  Instinct  to  Perpetuate  our  Race.  Let  us  take  High 
Ground  in  this  matter,  gentlemen. 

CONSTANTINE.  [Unstirred.]  The  very  highest,  Mr. 
State.  If  you  think  that  to  turn  Weymouth  for  a  month 


100  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  ni 

a  year  into  a  cockpit  of  haphazard  love-making,  with  all 
the  consequences  that  custom  entails,  is  the  best  way  of 
perpetuating  your  race  .  .  .  well,  I  disagree  with  you  .  .  . 
but  it's  a  point  of  view.  What  I  ask  is  why  Major  Thomas 
and  myself  .  .  .  already  perhaps  in  a  creditable  state  of 
marital  perpetuation  .  .  .  should  have  our  busy  London 
lives  obsessed  by  ...  What  is  this  thing? 

PHILIP.    La  belle  Helene's  new  hat,  father. 

CONSTANTINE.  Now,  that  may  be  ugly  ...  I  hope  I 
never  made  anything  quite  so  ugly  myself  .  .  .  but  it's 
attractive. 

PHILIP.     [With  a  wry  face."]    No,  father. 

CONSTANTINE.    Isn't  it,  Major  Thomas? 

THOMAS.  [Honestly.'}  Well  ...  it  makes  you  look  at 
em  when  you  might  not  otherwise. 

CONSTANTINE.  Yes  .  .  .  it's  provocative.  Its  intention 
is  that  none  of  the  world's  work  shall  be  done  while  it's 
about.  And  when  it's  always  about  I  honestly  confess 
again  that  I  cannot  do  my  share.  It's  a  terrible  thing  to 
be  constantly  conscious  of  women.  They  have  their  uses 
to  the  world  ...  as  you  so  happily  phrased  it,  Mr.  State 
.  .  .  their  perpetual  use  .  .  .  and  the  world's  interest  is 
best  served  by  keeping  them  strictly  to  it.  Are  these 
provocative  ladies  [he  fingers  the  hat  again]  remarkable 
for  perpetuation  now-a-days? 

Once  more  MR.  STATE  bursts  in — this  time  almost 
heart-brokenly. 

MR.  STATE.  I  can't  bear  this,  sir  ...  I  can't  bear  to 
take  such  a  view  of  life  ...  no  man  of  feeling  could. 
Besides,  it's  Reactionary  .  .  .  you're  on  the  wrong  tack. 
You  must  come  back  to  us,  sir.  You  gave  us  Joy  and 
Pleasure  .  .  .  can  we  do  without  them?  When  you  find 
yourself  once  more  among  the  Loveliness  you  helped  us 
to  Worship  you'll  change  your  mind.  What  was  the  end 
of  that  little  story  of  the  Duchess?  How,  on  the  appoint- 


ACT  in]         THE   MADRAS    HOUSE     ;;        101 

ed  night,  attired  in  her  Madras  Creation,  she  swept  into 
the  Ball  room  with  a  frou-frou  of  silk  skirt  wafting  Per- 
fume as  she  came  .  .  .  while  her  younger  rivals  Pale  be- 
fore the  Intoxication  of  her  Beauty,  and  every  man  in 
the  room  .  .  .  young  and  old  .  .  .  struggles  for  a  Glimpse 
...  a  Word  ...  a  Look.  [Once  again  he  starts  to  soar.] 
A  Ball  room,  sir  ...  isn't  it  one  of  the  Sweetest  Sights 
in  the  World?  When  bright  the  lamps  shine  o'er  Fair 
Women  and  Brave  Men.  Music  arises  with  its  Voluptu- 
ous Swell.  Soft  eyes  look  Love  to  eyes  which  speak  again. 
And  all  goes  Merry  as  a  Marriage  Bell !  Byron,  gentle- 
men, taught  me  at  my  mother's  knee.  The  poet  of  Love 
and  Liberty  .  .  .  read  in  every  school  in  America. 

At  the  end  of  this  recitation,  which  MR.  HUXTABLE 
barely  refrains  front  applauding,  CONSTANTINE  goes 
coolly  on. 

CONSTANTINE.  Mr.  State,  that  is  my  case.  The  whole 
of  our  upper  class  life,  which  everyone  with  a  say  in  the 
government  of  the  country  tries  to  lead  ...  is  now  run 
as  a  ball  room  is  run.  Men  swaggering  before  women 
.  .  .  the  women  ogling  the  men.  Once  a  lad  got  some 
training  in  manliness.  But  now  from  the  very  start  .  .  .  ! 
In  your  own  progressive  country  .  .  .  mixed  education 
.  .  .  oh,  my  dear  sir  ...  mixed  education ! 

MR.  STATE.     A  softening  influence. 

CONSTANTINE.  [Unexpectedly.]  Of  course  it  is.  And 
what  has  it  sunk  to,  moreover  ...  all  education  now- 
a-days?  Book-learning.  Because  woman's  a  dab  at  that 
.  .  .  though  it's  of  quite  secondary  importance  to  a  man. 

THOMAS.     [Feelingly.'}    That's  so. 

CONSTANTINE.  And  moral  influence.  Woman's  moral- 
ity ...  the  worst  in  the  world. 

PHILIP.     Slave  morality. 

CONSTANTINE.  Yes.  Read  Nietszche  ...  as  my  friend 
Tarleton  says.  \All  one  gathers  from  this  cryptic  allusion 


102  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  m 

is  that  MR.  HUXTABLE,  at  any  rate,  reprobates  Tarleton, 
and,  inferentially,  Nietszche.~]  At  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
it  grows  worse  .  .  .  married  professors  .  .  .  Newnham 
and  Girton  .  .  .  suffrage  questions  .  .  .  purity  questions. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     Of  course,  some  of  the  novels  .  .  . 

CONSTANTINE.  From  seventeen  to  thirty-four  .  .  .  the 
years  which  a  man  should  consecrate  to  the  acquiring  of 
political  virtue  .  .  .  wherever  he  turns  he  is  distracted, 
provoked,  tantalised  by  the  barefaced  presence  of  women. 
How's  he  to  keep  a  clear  brain  for  the  larger  issues  of 
life?  Why  do  you  soldiers,  Major  Thomas,  volunteer 
with  such  alacrity  for  foreign  service? 

THOMAS.  [With  a  jump.']  Good  God  ...  I  never 
thought  of  that. 

CONSTANTINE.  What's  the  result?  Every  great  public 
question  ...  all  politics,  all  religion,  all  economy  is  being 
brought  down  to  the  level  of  women's  emotion.  Admirable 
in  its  way,  .  .  .  charming  in  its  place !  But  softening, 
sentimentalising,  enervating  .  .  .  lapping  the  world,  if 
you  let  it,  in  the  nursery  cotton  wool  of  prettiness  and 
pettiness.  Men  don't  realise  how  far  rotted  by  the  process 
they  are  .  .  .  that's  what's  so  fatal.  We're  used  to  a 
whole  nation's  anger  being  vented  in  scoldings  ...  or 
rather  we're  getting  used  to  the  thought  that  it's  naughty 
to  be  angry  at  all.  Justice  degenerates  into  kindness  .  .  . 
that  doesn't  surprise  us.  Religion  is  a  pretty  hymn  tune 
to  keep  us  from  fear  of  the  dark.  You  four  unfortunates 
might  own  the  truth  just  for  once  .  .  .  you  needn't  tell 
your  wives. 

MR.  STATE.     I  am  not  married. 

CONSTANTINE.    I  might  have  known  it. 

MR.  STATE.     \A  little  astonished.]     But  no  matter. 

CONSTANTINE.  [With  full  appreciation  of  what  he 
says.']  Women  haven't  morals  or  intellect  in  our  sense 
of  the  words.  They  have  other  incompatible  qualities 


ACT  ra]         THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  103 

quite  as  important,  no  doubt  But  shut  them  away  from 
public  life  and  public  exhibition.  It's  degrading  to  com- 
pete with  them  .  .  .  it's  as  degrading  to  compete  for  them. 
Perhaps  we're  too  late  already  .  .  .  but  oh,  my  dear  sen- 
timental Sir  [he  addresses  the  pained  though  admiring 
MR.  STATE],  if  we  could  replant  the  laurel  bushes  thick 
enough  we  might  yet  rediscover  the  fine  manly  world  we 
are  losing. 

Except  PHILIP,  who  sits  detached  and  attentive,  they 
are   all  rather  depressed   by   this  judgment  upon 
them.    THOMAS  recovers  sufficiently  to  ask  .  .  . 
THOMAS.     Are  you  advocating  polygamy  in  England? 
CONSTANTINE.    That  is  what  it  should  come  to. 
THOMAS.    Well  ...  I  call  that  rather  shocking.    [Then 
with  some  hopeful  interest.]     And  is  it  practical? 

CONSTANTINE.  I  did  not  anticipate  the  reform  in  my 
lifetime  ...  so  I  left  for  the  East. 

PHILIP.  [Finely.]  You  did  quite  right,  Father.  I  wish 
everyone  of  your  way  of  thinking  would  do  the  same. 

CONSTANTINE  is  ready  for  him. 

CONSTANTINE.  Are  you  prepared  for  so  much  depopu- 
lation? Think  of  the  women  who'd  be  off  to-morrow. 

MR.  HUXTABLE  wakes  from  stupefaction  to  say  with 
tremendous  emphasis. 

MR.    HUXTABLE.       Never  ! 

CONSTANTINE.    Wrong,  Harry. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  No,  I'm  not  wrong  just  because  you 
say  so!  You  ought  to  listen  to  me  a  bit  sometimes.  I 
always  listened  to  you. 

CONSTANTINE.     Bless  your  quick  temper. 

Who  could  resist  CONSTANTINE'S  smile  .  .  .  Well, 

not   HUXTABLE. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.    Oh  ...  go  on  ...  tell  me  why  I'm 
wrong  ...  I  daresay  I  am. 
CONSTANTINE.     Even  if  you  have  liked  bringing  up  six 


104  THE  MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  in 

daughters  and  not  getting  them  married  .  .  .  how  have 
they  liked  it?  You  should  have  drowned  them  at  birth, 
Harry  .  .  . 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     You  must  have  your  joke,  mustn't  you? 

CONSTANTINE.  Therefore,  how  much  pleasanter  for 
you  .  .  .  how  much  better  for  them  ...  if  you'd  only 
to  find  one  man  ready,  for  a  small  consideration,  to  marry 
the  lot 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [With  intense  delight.]  Now  if  I  was 
to  tell  my  wife  that  she  wouldn't  see  the  umour  of  it. 

CONSTANTINE.  The  woman  emancipator's  last  ditch, 
Mr.  State,  is  the  trust  that  women  will  side  with  him. 
Don't  make  any  mistake.  This  is  a  serious  question  to 
them  ...  of  health  and  happiness  .  .  .  and  sometimes  of 
bread  and  butter.  Quite  apart  from  our  customers  here 
.  .  .  kept  women,  every  one  of  them  .  .  . 

MR.  STATE.     [In  some  alarm.']    You  don't  say ! 

CONSTANTINE.  [Gently  lifting  him  from  the  little  trap.] 
Economically.  Kept  by  their  husbands  ...  or  if  they 
live  on  their  dividends,  kept  by  Society. 

PHILIP.     What  about  men  who  live  on  their  dividends? 

MR.  STATE.    No  .  .  .  now  don't  let  us  go  on  to  politics. 

CONSTANTINE.  .  .  .  And  apart  from  the  prisoners  in 
that  chaste  little  fortress  on  Denmark  Hill  ...  we  used 
to  employ,  Harry,  between  us  ...  what?  .  .  .  two  or 
three  hundred  free  and  independent  women  .  .  .  making 
clothes  for  the  others,  the  ladies.  They  are  as  free  as  you 
like  .  .  .  free  to  go  ...  free  to  starve.  How  much  do 
they  rejoice  in  their  freedom  to  earn  their  living  by 
ruining  their  health  and  stifling  their  instincts?  Answer 
me,  Harry,  you  monster  of  good-natured  wickedness. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     What's  that? 

CONSTANTINE.     You  keep  an  industrial  seraglio. 

MR.    HUXTABLE.      A    what ! 

CONSTANTINE.     What  else  is  your  Roberts  and  Huxtabk 


ACT  m]         THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  105 

but  a  harem  of  industry.  Do  you  know  that  it  would 
sicken  with  horror  a  good  Mahommedan?  You  buy  these 
girls  in  the  open  market  .  .  .  you  keep  them  under  lock 
and  key  .  .  . 

MR.  HUXTABLE.      I  do? 

CONSTANTINE.  Quite  right,  Harry,  no  harm  done. 
[Then  his  voice  sinks  to  the  utmost  seriousness.]  But  you 
coin  your  profits  out  of  them  by  putting  on  exhibition  for 
ten  hours  a  day  .  .  .  their  good  looks,  their  good  man- 
ners, their  womanhood.  Hired  out  it  is  to  any  stranger 
to  hold  as  cheap  for  a  few  minutes  as  common  decency 
allows.  And  when  you've  worn  them  out  you  turn  them 
out  .  .  .  forget  their  very  names  .  .  .  wouldn't  know  their 
faces  if  you  met  them  selling  matches  at  your  door.  For 
such  treatment  of  potential  motherhood,  my  Prophet  con- 
demns a  man  to  Hell. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Breathless  with  amazement.']  Well,  I 
never  did  in  all  my  born  days !  They  can  marry  respect- 
ably, can't  they?  We  like  em  to  marry. 

PHILIP.  Yes,  Uncle  ...  I  went  into  that  question  with 
Miss  Yates  and  the  Brigstocks  this  morning. 

CONSTANTINE.  [Completing  his  case.]  I  ask  you  all 
.  .  .  what  is  to  happen  to  you  as  a  nation?  Where  are 
your  future  generations  coming  from?  What  with  the 
well-kept  women  you  natter  and  aestheticise  till  they  won't 
give  you  children,  and  the  free  women  you  work  at  mar- 
ket rates  till  they  can't  give  you  children  .  .  . 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Half  humorously  sulky.]  Miss  Yates 
has  obliged  us,  anyhow. 

PHILIP.  [Quickly  capping  him.]  And  we're  going  to 
dismiss  her. 

MR.  HUXTABLE  flashes  again  into  protestation. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  What  else  can  we  do?  But  I  said  you 
weren't  to  be  hard  on  the  girl.  And  I  won't  be  upset  like 
this.  I  want  to  take  things  as  I  find  em  ...  that  is  as  I 


106  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  ra 

used  to  find  em  ...  before  there  was  any  of  these  ideas 
going  around  .  .  .  and  I'm  sure  we  were  happier  without 
em.  Stifling  their  instincts  .  .  .  it's  a  horrid  way  to  talk. 
And  I  don't  believe  it.  I  could  send  for  every  girl  in 
the  shop,  and  not  one  of  em  would  hint  at  it  to  me.  [He 
has  triumphed  with  himself  so  far,  but  his  new-born  intel- 
lectual conscience  brings  him  downJ]  Not  that  that  proves 
anything,  does  it  ?  I'm  a  fool.  It's  a  beastly  world.  But  I 
don't  make  it  so,  do  I? 

PHILIP.    Who  does? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Other  people.  [PHILIP'S  eye  is  on 
him.~\  Oh,  I  see  it  coming.  You're  going  to  say  we're 
all  the  other  people  or  something.  I'm  getting  up  to  you. 

CONSTANTINE.  [Very  carefully.]  What  is  this  about  a 
Miss  Yates? 

PHILIP.  A  little  bother  down  at  Peckham.  I  can  tell 
you  afterwards  if  you  like. 

CONSTANTINE.     No  .  .  .  there  is  no  need. 

Something  in  the  tone  of  this  last  makes  PHILIP 
look  up  quickly.  But  MR.  STATE,  with  a  sudden 
thought,  has  first  dived  for  his  watch,  and  then,  at 
the  sight  of  it,  gets  up  from  the  table. 

MR.  STATE.  Gentlemen,  are  you  aware  of  the  time?  I 
may  mention  that  I  have  a  City  appointment  at  four 
o'clock. 

CONSTANTINE.  [Polite,  but  leisurely.']  Are  we  detain- 
ing you,  Mr.  State?  Not  universal  or  compulsory  polyg- 
amy, Major  Thomas.  That  would  be  nonsense.  The  very 
distribution  of  the  sexes  forbids  it.  But  its  recognition 
is  one  of  the  logical  outcomes  of  the  aristocratic  method 
of  government.  And  that's  the  only  ultimate  method  .  .  . 
all  others  are  interim  plans  for  sifting  out  various  aris- 
tocracies. The  community  of  the  future  will  specialise 
its  functions.  Women  will  find,  I  hope,  some  intellectual 
companions  like  my  son,  who  will,  besides,  take  a  gentle 


ACT  ni]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  107 

interest  in  the  County  Council.  There  will  be  single- 
hearted  men  like  Harry,  content  with  old-fashioned  do- 
mesticity. There  will  be  poets  like  you,  Mr.  State,  to 
dream  about  women  and  to  dress  them  .  .  .  their  bodies  j 
in  silks  and  their  virtues  in  phrases.  But  there  must  also 
be  such  men  as  Major  Thomas  and  myself  .  .  . 

THOMAS  rises,  yet  again,  to  this  piece  of  chaff. 

THOMAS.  No,  no!  I'm  not  like  that  .  .  .  not  in  the 
least.  Because  a  fellow  has  been  in  the  Army!  Don't 
drag  me  in. 

MR.  STATE.  As  stimulating  a  conversation  as  I  remem- 
ber. A  little  hard  to  follow  at  times  .  .  .  but  worth  far 
more  than  the  sacrifice  of  any  mere  business  doings. 

CONSTANTINE  takes  the  hint  graciously,  and  is  apt 
for  business  at  once. 

CONSTANTINE.  My  fault!  Shall  we  agree,  Mr.  State, 
to  accept  as  much  of  your  offer  as  you  have  no  intention 
of  altering?  We  are  dealing  for  both  the  shops? 

MR.  STATE.  Yes.  What  are  we  proposing  to  knock  off 
their  valuation,  Major  Thomas? 

THOMAS.     Eight  thousand  six  hundred. 

CONSTANTINE.  Phil,  what  were  we  prepared  to  come 
down? 

PHILIP.    Nine  thousand. 

CONSTANTINE.  A  very  creditable  margin.  Your  offer 
is  accepted,  Mr.  State. 

MR.  STATE  feels  he  must  really  play  up  to  such  mag- 
nificent conducting  of  business. 

MR.  STATE.  I  should  prefer  to  knock  you  down  only 
eight  thousand. 

CONSTANTINE.  [Keeping  the  advantage.']  Isn't  that 
merely  romantic  of  you,  Mr.  State  .  .  .  not  in  the  best 
form  of  business  art? 

THOMAS.     But  the  conditions,  you  know? 

CONSTANTINE.     We  accept  your  conditions.      If  they 


108  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  in 

won't  work  you'll  be  only  anxious  to  alter  them.    So  the 
business  is  done. 

MR.  HUXTABLE'S  eyes  are  wide. 

MR.    HUXTABLE.      But   look   here. 

PHILIP.     Uncle  Harry  has  something  to  say  .  .  . 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     [Assertively.]     Yes. 

CONSTANTINE.     Something  different  to  say,  Harry  ? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     [After  thinking  it  over.}     No. 
So  CONSTANTINE  returns  happily  to  his  subject. 

CONSTANTINE.  What  interests  me  about  this  Woman 
Question  .  .  .  now  that  I've  settled  my  personal  share  in 
it  ...  is  to  wonder  how  Europe,  hampered  by  such  an 
unsolved  problem,  can  hope  to  stand  up  against  the  Ori- 
ental revival. 

THOMAS.    What's  that? 

CONSTANTINE.  You'll  hear  of  it  shortly.  Up  from  the 
Persian  gulf  to  where  I  live  we  could  grow  enough  wheat 
to  feed  the  British  Empire.  Life  there  is  simple  and  spa- 
cious ...  the  air  is  not  breathed  out.  All  we  want  is  a 
happy,  hardy  race  of  men,  and  under  a  decent  government 
we  shall  soon  beget  it.  But  you  Europeans !  Is  this  the 
symbol  you  are  marching  to  the  future  under?  [He  has 
found  again,  and  lifts  up,  la  Belle  Heine's  new  hat.]  A 
cap  of  slavery !  You  are  all  idolaters  of  women  .  .  .  and 
they  are  the  slaves  of  your  idolatry. 

MR.  STATE.  [With  undisguised  admiration.']  Mr.  Mad- 
ras, I  am  proud  to  have  met  you  again.  If  I  say  another 
word,  I  may  be  so  interested  in  your  reply  that  I  shall 
miss  my  appointment.  My  coat?  Thank  you,  Mr.  Philip. 
I  have  to  meet  a  man  about  a  new  system  of  country  house 
drainage  that  he  wants  me  to  finance.  I  can  hardly  hope 
for  another  Transcendental  Discussion  upon  that. 

CONSTANTINE.      Why   not  ? 

MR.  STATE.     If  you  were  he !    Good-bye,  sir.    Good-day, 


ACT  m]        THE  MADRAS  HOUSE  109 

Mr.  Huxtable.    Till  to-morrow,  Major  Thomas.    No,  Mr. 
Philip,  don't  see  me  down. 

He  is  off  for  his  next  deal.  PHILIP  civilly  takes 
him  past  the  door,  saying  .  ,  . 

PHILIP.  Your  car's  at  the  Bond  Street  entrance,  I 
expect. 

And  then  he  comes  back.  CONSTANTINE  is  keeping 
half  a  friendly  eye  on  HUXTABLE,  who  fidgets  under 
it.  THOMAS  takes  breath  and  expounds  a  grievance. 

THOMAS.  That's  how  he  settles  business.  But  leaves 
us  all  the  papers  to  do.  I  shall  take  mine  home.  The 
four-thirty  gets  me  indoors  by  a  quarter  to  six.  Time 
for  a  cup  of  tea!  Phil,  have  you  got  China  tea? 

PHILIP.    Downstairs. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.    I  must  be  getting  back,  I  think. 

CONSTANTINE.  Harry  .  .  .  you're  running  away  from 
me. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [In  frank  amused  confession.]  Yes 
...  I  was.  Habit,  y'know  .  .  .  habit 

CONSTANTINE.  [With  the  most  friendly  condescension.] 
Suppose  I  go  with  you  .  .  .  part  of  the  way.  How  do 
you  go? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     On  a  bus. 

CONSTANTINE.     Suppose  we  go  together  ...  on  a  bus. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Desperately  cunning.]  It's  all  right 
.  .  .  they  won't  see  me  with  you.  We  don't  close  till 
seven. 

CONSTANTINE'S  face  sours. 

CONSTANTINE.  No,  to  be  sure.  Phil,  I  can't  come  to 
dinner,  I'm  afraid. 

PHILIP.  Oh,  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  Mother  will  be 
there.  Tommy,  you  know  the  tea  room. 

THOMAS.     [All  tact.]     Oh,  quite! 

PHILIP.  Straight  downstairs,  first  to  the  left  and  the 
second  passage.  I'll  follow. 


110  THE  MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  m 

THOMAS  departs.  CONSTANTINE  says,  indiffer- 
ently .  ,  . 

CONSTANTINE.     Then  I'll  come  in  after  dinner. 

PHILIP.    You  don't  mind? 

CONSTANTINE.       No. 

There  stands  MR.  HUXTABLE,  first  on  one  foot  and 
then  on  the  other,  desperately  nervous.  CONSTAN- 
TINE smiling  at  him.  PHILIP  cannot  resist  it.  He 
says  .  .  . 

PHILIP.     It's  afterwards  now,  Uncle.    Fire  away. 

And  is  off.  CONSTANTINE  still  smiles.  Poor  MR. 
HUXTABLE  makes  a  desperate  effort  to  do  the  proper 
thing  by  this  reprobate.  He  forms  his  face  into  a 
frown.  It's  no  use;  an  answering  smile  will  come. 
He  surrenders. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Look  here  .  .  .  don't  let's  talk  about 
Amelia. 

CONSTANTINE.     No  .  .  .  never  rake  up  the  past. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Lord !  What  else  has  a  chap  got  to 
think  of? 

CONSTANTINE.    That's  why  you  look  so  old. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.      Do  I,  nOW? 

CONSTANTINE.    What  age  are  you? 

MR.   HUXTABLE.      Sixty. 

The  two  sit  down  together. 

CONSTANTINE.  You  should  come  and  stay  with  me  at 
Hit  .  .  .  not  far  from  Hillel  .  .  .  Hillel  is  Babylon, 
Harry. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.     \Curious.~]    What's  it  like  there? 

CONSTANTINE.  The  house  is  white,  and  there  are  palm 
trees  about  it  ...  and  not  far  off  flows  the  Euphrates. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Just  like  in  the  Bible.  [His  face  is 
wistful.]  Constantine. 

CONSTANTINE.    Yes,  Harry. 


ACT  in]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  111 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  You've  said  odder  things  this  after- 
noon than  I've  ever  heard  you  say  before. 

CONSTANTINE.    Probably  not. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Wondering]  And  I  haven't  really 
minded  em.  But  I  believe  it's  the  first  time  I've  ever 
understood  you  .  .  .  and  p'raps  that's  just  as  well  for  me. 

CONSTANTINE.     [Encouragingly]  Oh  .  .  .  why,  Harry  ? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Because  .  .  .  d'you  think  it's  only  not 
being  very  clever  keeps  us  ...  well  behaved? 

CONSTANTINE.    Has  it  kept  you  happy  ? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Impatient  at  the  petty  word.'}  Any- 
one can  be  happy.  What  worries  me  is  having  got  to  my 
age  and  only  just  beginning  to  understand  anything  at  all. 
And  you  can't  learn  it  out  of  books,  old  man.  Books 
don't  tell  you  the  truth  ...  at  least  not  any  that  I  can 
find.  I  wonder  if  I'd  been  a  bit  of  a  dog  like  you  .  .  .  ? 
But  there  it  is  ...  you  can't  do  things  on  purpose.  And 
what's  more,  don't  you  go  to  think  I'd  have  done  them  if 
I  could  .  .  .  knowing  them  to  be  wrong.  {Then  comes  a 
discovery.]  But  I  was  always  jealous  of  you,  Constan- 
tine,  for  you  seemed  to  get  the  best  of  everything  .  .  .  and 
I  know  people  couldn't  help  being  fond  of  you  .  .  .  for  I 
was  fond  of  you  myself,  whatever  you  did.  That  was 
odd  to  start  with.  And  now  here  we  are,  both  of  us  old 
chaps  .  .  . 

CONSTANTINE.  [As  he  throws  back  his  head.]  I  am  not 
old. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [With  sudden  misgiving.]  You  don't 
repent,  do  you? 

CONSTANTINE.      What   of? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Katherine  said  this  morning  that  you 
might  have  .  .  .  but  I  wasn't  afraid  of  that.  [Now  he 
wags  his  head  wisely]  You  know  .  .  .  you  evil-doers 
.  .  .  you  upset  us  all,  and  you  hurt  our  feelings,  and  of 
course  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  But  .  .  . 


112  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  in 

well  .  .  .  it's  like  the  only  time  I  went  abroad.  I  was 
sick  going  ...  I  was  orribly  uncomfortable  ...  I  ated 
the  cooking  ...  I  was  sick  coming  back.  But  I  wouldn't 
have  missed  it  ...  ! 

CONSTANTINE.  [/«  affectionate  good  fellowship.']  Come 
to  Arabia,  Harry. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Humorously  pathetic  about  it.]  Don't 
you  make  game  of  me.  My  time's  over.  What  have  I 
done  with  it,  now  ?  Married.  Brought  up  a  family.  Been 
master  to  a  few  hundred  girls  and  fellows  who  never 
really  cared  a  bit  for  me.  I've  been  made  a  convenience 
of  ...  that's  my  life.  That's  where  I  envy  you.  You've 
had  your  own  way  .  .  .  and  you  don't  look  now  as  if 
you'd  be  damned  for  it,  either. 

CONSTANTINE.  [In  gentlemanly  defiance.]  I  shan't  be. 
MR.  HUXTABLE  shakes  a  fist,  somewhat,  though  un- 
consciously, in  the  direction  of  the  ceiling. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  It's  not  fair,  and  I  don't  care  who 
hears  me  say  so. 

CONSTANTINE.  Suppose  we  shout  it  from  the  top  of 
the  bus. 

As  they  start,  MR.  HUXTABLE  returns  to  his  mun- 
dane, responsible  self. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  But  you  know,  old  man  .  .  .  you'll  ex- 
cuse me,  I'm  sure  .  .  .  and  it's  all  very  well  having  theo- 
ries and  being  able  to  talk  .  .  .  still,  you  did  treat  Amelia 
very  badly  .  .  .  and  those  other  ones,  too  .  .  .  say  what 
you  like !  Let  go  my  arm,  will  you ! 

CONSTANTINE.      Why  ? 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Hw  scruples  less  strong  than  the  soft 
touch  of  CONSTANTINE'S  hand.]  Well,  p'raps  you  needn't. 
[A  thought  strikes  him.]  Are  you  really  jsroing  away  for 
good  this  time? 

CONSTANTINE.    To-morrow. 


ACT  in]        THE   MADRAS  HOUSE  113 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  [Beaming  on  hint.']  Then  come  home 
and  see  mother  and  the  girls. 

MAJOR  THOMAS  comes  back,  looking  about  him. 
THOMAS.     Excuse  me  ...  I  left  my  hat. 
CONSTANTINE.     It  will  make  them  very  uncomfortable. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.     [His  smile  fading.]     D'you  think  so? 
Won't  it  do  em  good  .  .  .  broaden  their  minds? 

PHILIP  comes  back,  too. 

MR.  HUXTABLE.  Phil  .  .  .  shall  I  take  your  father  ome 
to  call? 

PHILIP.     [After  one  gasp  at  the  prospect,  says  with 
great  cheerfulness  .  .  .  ]     Certainly. 
CONSTANTINE.    I'll  be  with  you  by  nine,  Phil. 

MR.  HUXTABLE'S  dare-devil  heart  fails  once  more. 
MR.  HUXTABLE.    I  say  .  .  .  better  not  be  too  friendly 
through  the  shop. 

CONSTANTINE  smiles  still,  but  does  not  loose  his 
arm.     Off  they  go. 

THOMAS.  [Still  searching.}  Where  the  devil  did  I  put 
it? 

PHILIP.  Pity  you  can't  take  father's  place  at  dinner, 
Tommy. 

THOMAS  stops  and  looks  at  him  aggrievedly. 
THOMAS.    Are  you  chaffing  me? 

PHILIP.  We  might  get  some  further  light  on  the 
Woman  Question.  My  mother's  opinion  and  Jessica's 
upon  such  men  as  you  and  my  father. 

He  picks  up  some  papers  and  sits  to  them  at  the 
table. 

THOMAS.    Look  here,  Phil  .  .  .  don't  you  aggravate  me 
into  behaving  rashly.    Here  it  is.     [He  has  found  his  hat 
on  a  gas-bracket — and  he  slams  it  on.] 
PHILIP.     With  Jessica? 

THOMAS.  [With  ferocious  gallantry]  Yes  ...  a 
damned  attractive  woman. 


114  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  in 

PHILIP.  After  all  ...  as  an  abstract  proposition,  Tom- 
my .  .  .  polyandry  is  just  as  simple  a  way  .  .  .  and  as 
far  as  we  know,  as  much  Nature's  way  as  the  other.  We 
ought  to  have  put  that  point  to  the  gentle  Mahommedan. 

THOMAS.  [After  vainly  considering  this  for  a  moment.] 
Phil,  I  should  like  to  see  you  in  love  with  a  woman  .  .  . 
It'd  serve  you  right. 

Suddenly  PHILIP  drops  his  mocking  tone  and  his 
face  grows  gentle  and  grave. 

PHILIP.  Tommy  .  .  .  what's  the  purpose  of  it  all? 
Apart  from  the  sentimental  wallowings  of  Mr.  Eustace 
Perrin  State  .  .  .  and  putting  that  Lord  of  Creation,  my 
father,  on  one  side  for  a  moment  .  .  .  what  do  we  slow- 
breeding,  civilised  people  get  out  of  love  .  .  .  and  the 
beauty  of  women  .  .  .  and  the  artistic  setting  that  beauty 
demands?  For  which  we  do  pay  rather  a  big  price,  you 
know,  Tommy.  What  do  we  get  for  it? 

THOMAS.     [Utterly  at  sea.~\     I  don't  know. 

PHILIP.  It's  an  important  question.  Think  it  over  in 
the  train. 

THOMAS.  Old  chap  ...  I  beg  your  pardon  .  .  .  the 
County  Council  is  the  best  place  for  you.  It'll  stop  your 
addling  over  these  silly  conundrums. 

PHILIP.     [Subtly.']     On  the  contrary. 

THOMAS.  [His  favourite  phrase  again.']  What  do  you 
mean? 

PHILIP.     Get  out  .  .  .  you'll  miss  that  four-thirty. 

THOMAS  gets  out.  PHILIP  gets  desperately  to  loathed 
business. 


ACT  iv]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  115 


ACT  IV 

PHILIP,  his  mother,  and  JESSICA,  are  sitting,  after  dinner, 
round  the  drawing-room  fire  in  Phillimore  Gardens. 
JESSICA,  rather,  is  away  upon  the  bench  of  her  long, 
black  piano,  sorting  bound  books  of  music,  and  the 
firelight  hardly  reaches  her.  But  it  flickers  over 
MRS.  MADRAS,  and  though  it  marks  more  deeply  the 
little  bitter  lines  on  her  face,  it  leaves  a  glow  there 
in  recompense.  She  sits,  poor,  anxious  old  lady, 
gazing,  not  into  the  fire,  but  at  the  shining  copper- 
fender,  her  hands  on  her  lap,  as  usual.  Every  now 
and  then  she  lifts  her  head  to  listen.  PHILIP  is  com- 
fortable upon  the  sofa  opposite;  he  is  smoking,  and 
is  deep,  besides,  in  some  weighty  volume,  the  Long- 
man Edition  of  the  Minority  Report  of  the  Poor 
Law  Commission,  perhaps. 

It  is  a  charming  room.  The  walls  are  grey,  the  paint  is 
a  darker  grey.  The  curtains  to  the  two  long  win- 
dows are  of  the  gentlest  pink  brocade;  the  lights 
that  hang  on  plain  little  brackets  from  the  walls 
are  a  soft  pink,  too,  and  there  is  no  other  colour  in 
the  room,  but  the  maziness  of  some  Persian  rugs 
on  the  floor  and  the  mellowed  brilliancy  of  the 
Arundel  prints  on  the  walls.  There  is  no  more 
furniture  than  there  need  be;  there  is  no  more  light 
than  there  need  be;  yet  it  is  not  empty  or  dreary. 
There  is  just  nothing  to  jar,  nothing  to  prevent  a 
sensitive  soul  finding  rest  there. 


116  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  iv 

The  parlour  maid  comes  in;  she  is  dressed  in  grey,  too, 
capless,  some  black  ribbons  about  her.  [Really, 
JESSICA'S  home  inclines  to  be  a  little  precious!] 
She  brings  letters,  one  for  JESSICA,  two  for  PHILIP, 
and  departs. 

PHILIP.     Last  post. 

JESSICA.    Half -past  nine.    I  suppose  your  father  means 
to  come? 

PHILIP.    He  said  so. 

MRS.  MADRAS.    Is  your  letter  interesting,  Jessica? 

JESSICA.    A  receipt. 

MRS.  MADRAS.    Do  you  run  bills? 

JESSICA.    Lots. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     Is  that  quite  wise? 

JESSICA.    The  tradesmen  prefer  it. 

With  that  she  walks  to  her  writing  table.  JESSICA'S 
manner  to  her  mother-in-law  is  over-courteous,  an 
unkind  weapon  against  which  the  old  lady,  but  half 
conscious  of  it,  is  quite  defenceless.  PHILIP  has 
opened  his  second  letter,  and  whistles,  at  its  con- 
tents, a  bar  of  a  tune  that  is  in  his  head. 

JESSICA.     What's  the  matter,  Phil? 

To  emphasize  his  feelings  he  performs  the  second 
bar  with  variations. 

JESSICA.     As  bad  as  that? 

For  final  comment  he  brings  the  matter  to  a  full 
close  on  one  expressive  note,  and  puts  the  letter 
away.  JESSICA  flicks  at  him  amusedly. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     How  absurd !    You  can't  tell  in  the  least 
what  he  means. 

JESSICA.     No. 

With  forced  patience  she  wanders  back  to  her 
piano. 

MRS.  MADRAS.      You  might  play  us  something,  Jessica 
.  .  .  just  to  pass  the  time. 


ACT  iv  ]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  117 

J  \ 

Unobserved.  JESSICA  casts  her  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling. 

JESSICA.    What  will  you  have? 

MRS.  MADRAS.    I  am  sure  you  play  all  the  latest  things. 

JESSICA.     I'm  afraid  you  don't  really  like  my  playing. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  I  do  think  it's  a  little  professional.  I 
prefer  something  softer. 

JESSICA  leaves  the  piano. 

JESSICA.     I'm  afraid  we  are  giving  you  a  dull  evening. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [With  that  suddenness  which  seems  to 
characterise  the  HUXTABLE  family.']  Why  do  you  never 
call  me  mother,  Jessica? 

JESSICA.     Don't  I? 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [Resenting  prevarication.']  You  know 
you  don't. 

JESSICA.     I  suppose  I  don't  think  of  you  just  like  that. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     What  has  that  to  do  with  it? 

JESSICA.  [More  coldly  courteous  than  ever.]  Nothing 
.  .  .  Mother. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  That's  not  a  very  nice  manner  of  giving 
way,  either,  is  it? 

JESSICA.  [On  the  edge  of  an  outburst.]  It  seemed  to 
me  sufficiently  childish. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [Parading  a  double  injury.]  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean.  It's  easy  to  be  too  clever  for  me, 
Jessica. 

PHILIP  mercifully  intervenes. 

PHILIP.  Mother,  what  do  you  think  parents  gain  by 
insisting  on  respect  and  affection  from  grown-up  children  ? 

MRS.  MADRAS.     Isn't  it  their  right? 

PHILIP.     But  I  asked  what  they  gained. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  Isn't  it  natural?  When  an  old  woman 
has  lost  her  husband,  or  worse,  if  she's  to  lose  her  chil- 
dren, too,  what  has  she  left? 

JESSICA.  {Recovering  a  little  kindness.]  Her  woman- 
hood, Mother. 


118  THE   MADRAS    HOUSE         [ACT  iv 

PHILIP.     Her  old-womanhood.    You  know,  it  may  be  a 
very  beautiful  possession. 

The  parlour  maid  announces  "MR.  CONSTANTINE 
MADRAS."  There  stands  Constantine  in  the  bright 
light  of  the  hall,  more  dramatically  dignified  than 
ever.  As  he  comes  in,  though,  it  seems  as  if  there 
was  the  slightest  strain  in  his  charming  manners. 
He  has  not  changed  his  clothes  for  the  evening. 
He  goes  straight  to  JESSICA,  and  it  seems  that  he 
has  a  curious  soft  way  of  shaking  hands  with 
women. 

CONSTANTINE.     How  do  you  do,  Jessica?     I  find  you 
looking  beautiful. 

JESSICA  acknowledges  the  compliment  with  a  little 
disdainful  bend  of  the  head  and  leaves  him,  then 
with  a  glance  at  PHILIP  leaves  the  room.  CONSTAN- 
TINE comes  towards  his  wife.  She  does  not  look 
up,  but  her  face  wrinkles  pathetically.  So  he  speaks 
at  last. 

CONSTANTINE.     Well,  Amelia? 

For  MRS.  MADRAS  it  must  be  resentment  or  tears,  or 
both.  Resentment  comes  first. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     Is  that  the  way  to  speak  to  me  after 
thirty  years? 

CONSTANTINE.      [Amicably.]      Perhaps    it    isn't.      But 
there's  not  much  variety  of  choice  in  greetings,  is  there? 

PHILIP,  nodding  to  his  father,  has  edged  to  the 
door,  and  now  edges  out  of  it. 

CONSTANTINE.     They  leave  us  alone.    We  might  be  an 
engaged  couple. 

She  stays  silent,  distressfully  avoiding  his  eye.  He 
takes  a  chair  and  sits  by  her.  He  would  say  [as 
JESSICA  no  doubt  would  say  of  herself]  that  he 
speaks  kindly  to  her. 

CONSTANTINE.     Well,  Amelia?     I  beg  your  pardon.     I 


ACT  iv]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  119 

repeat  myself,  and  you  dislike  the  phrase.  I  hope,  though, 
that  you  are  quite  well?  Don't  cry,  dear  Amelia  .  .  . 
unless,  of  course,  you  want  to  cry.  Well,  then  .  .  .  cry. 
And,  when  you've  finished  crying  .  .  .  there's  no  hurry 
.  .  .  you  shall  tell  me  why  you  wished  to  see  me  .  .  .  and 
run  the  risk  of  upsetting  yourself  like  this. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [Dabbing  her  eyes.']  I  don't  often  cry. 
I  don't  often  get  a  chance. 

CONSTANTINE.  I  fear  that  is  only  one  way  of  saying 
that  you  miss  me. 

The  handkerchief  is  put  away,  and  she  faces  him. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  Are  you  really  going  back  to  that  coun- 
try to-morrow  ? 

CONSTANTINE.    To-morrow  morning. 

MRS.   MADRAS.       For  good  ? 

CONSTANTINE.     [With  thanksgiving.]    For  ever. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [Desperately  resolute.]  Will  you  take 
me  with  you? 

//  takes  CONSTANTINE  just  a  moment  to  recover. 

CONSTANTINE.    No,  Amelia,  I  will  not. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [Re-acting  a  little  hysterically.]  I'm 
sure  I  don't  want  to  go,  and  I'm  sure  I  never  meant  to  ask 
you.  But  you  haven't  changed  a  bit,  Constantine  ...  in 
spite  of  your  beard.  [Then  the  voice  saddens  and  almost 
dies  away.']  I  have. 

CONSTANTINE.     Only  externally,  I'm  sure. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  Why  did  you  ever  marry  me?  You 
married  me  for  my  money. 

CONSTANTINE.     [Sighting  boredom.]    It  is  so  long  ago. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  It  isn't  ...  it  seems  like  yesterday. 
Didn't  you  marry  me  for  my  money? 

CONSTANTINE.  Partly,  Amelia,  partly.  Why  did  you 
marry  me? 

MRS.  MADRAS.     I  wanted  to.    I  was  a  fool. 

CONSTANTINE.    [Evenly  still.]     You  were  a  fool,  per- 


120  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  nr 

haps,  to  grumble  at  the  consequence  of  getting  what  you 
wanted.  It  would  have  been  kinder  of  me,  no  doubt,  not 
to  marry  you.  But  I  was  more  impetuous  then,  and,  of 
course,  less  experienced.  I  didn't  realise  you  never  could 
change  your  idea  of  what  a  good  husband  must  be,  nor 
how  necessary  it  would  become  that  you  should. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  How  dare  you  make  excuses  for  the 
way  you  treated  me? 

CONSTANTINE.  There  were  two  excuses.  I  was  the 
first.  I'm  afraid  that  you  ultimately  became  the  second. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [With  spirit.]  I  only  stood  up  for  my 
rights. 

CONSTANTINE.  You  got  them,  too.  We  separated,  and 
there  was  an  end  of  it. 

MRS.  MADRAS.    I've  never  been  happy  since. 

CONSTANTINE.  That  is  nothing  to  be  proud  of,  my  dear. 
MRS.  MADRAS  feels  the  strangeness  between  them 
wearing  off. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  What  happened  to  that  woman  and  her 
son  .  .  .  that  Flora? 

CONSTANTINE.  The  son  is  an  engineer  .  .  .  promises 
very  well,  his  employers  tell  me.  Flora  lives  at  Hitchin 
.  .  .  quite  comfortably,  I  have  reason  to  believe. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     She  was  older  than  me. 

CONSTANTINE.    About  the  same  age,  I  think. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     You've  given  her  money? 

CONSTANTINE.  [His  eyebrows  up.~\  Certainly  .  .  .  they 
were  both  provided  for. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     Don't  you  expect  me  to  be  jealous  ? 

CONSTANTINE.     [With  a  sighJ\     Still,  Amelia? 

MRS.  MADRAS.    Do  you  ever  see  her  now? 

CONSTANTINE.     I  haven't  seen  her  for  years. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  It  seems  to  me  she  has  been  just  as  well 
treated  as  I  have  ...  if  not  better. 

CONSTANTINE.    She  expected  less. 


ACT  rv]         THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  121 

MRS.  MADRAS.    And  what  about  the  others  ? 

CONSTANTINE.  [His  patience  giving  out.']  No,  really, 
it's  thirty  years  ago  ...  I  cannot  fight  my  battles  over 
again.  Please  tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you  beyond  tak- 
ing you  back  with  me. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [Cowering  to  the  least  harshness."]  I 
didn't  mean  that.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  say  it. 
But  it's  dreadful  seeing  you  once  more  and  being  alone 
with  you. 

CONSTANTINE.  Now,  Amelia,  are  you  going  to  cry 
again  ? 

MRS.  MADRAS.     [Setting  her  teeth.]     No. 

CONSTANTINE.    That's  right. 

MRS.  MADRAS  really  does  'full  herself  together,  and 
becomes  intensely  reasonable. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  What  I  really  want  you  to  do,  if  you 
please,  Constantine,  is  not  to  go  away.  I  don't  expect  us 
to  live  together  .  .  .  after  the  way  you  have  behaved  I 
could  not  consent  to  such  a  thing.  But  somebody  must 
look  after  you  when  you  are  ill,  and,  what's  more,  I  don't 
think  you  ought  to  go  and  die  out  of  your  own  country. 

CONSTANTINE.  [Meeting  reason  with  reason.]  My  dear 
...  I  have  formed  other  ties. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  Will  you  please  explain  exactly  what 
you  mean  by  that? 

CONSTANTINE.    I  am  a  Mahommedan. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     Nonsense ! 

CONSTANTINE.  Possibly  you  are  not  acquainted  with 
the  Mahommedan  marriage  laws. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  D'you  mean  to  say  you're  not  married 
to  me? 

CONSTANTINE.  No  .  .  .  though  it  was  not  considered 
necessary  for  me  to  take  that  into  account  in  conforming 
to  it  ...  I  did. 

MRS.  MADRAS.    Well.  .  .  I  never  thought  you  could  be- 


122  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  iv 

have  any  worse.  Why  weren't  you  satisfied  in  making 
me  unhappy?  If  you've  gone  and  committed  blasphemy 
as  well  ...  I  don't  know  what's  to  become  of  you,  Con- 
stantine. 

CONSTANTINE.  Amelia,  if  I  had  been  a  Mahommedan 
from  the  beginning  you  might  be  living  happily  with  me 
now. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  How  can  you  say  such  a  horrible  thing? 
Suppose  it  were  true? 

CONSTANTINE.    I  came  from  the  East. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     You  didn't. 

CONSTANTINE.  Let  us  be  quite  accurate.  My  grand- 
father was  a  Smyrna  Jew. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  You  never  knew  him.  Your  mother 
brought  you  up  a  Baptist. 

CONSTANTINE.  I  was  an  unworthy  Baptist.  As  a  Bap- 
tist I  owe  you  apologies  for  my  conduct.  What  does  that 
excellent  creed  owe  me  for  the  little  hells  of  temptation 
and  shame  and  remorse  that  I  passed  through  because 
of  it? 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [/H  pathetic  wonder."]  Did  you,  Con- 
stantine  ? 

CONSTANTINE.      I  did. 

MRS.  MADRAS.     You  never  told  me. 
CONSTANTINE.     {With  manly   pride.]     I   should   think 
not. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  But  I  was  longing  to  have  you  say  you 
were  sorry,  and  let  me  forgive  you.  Twice  and  three 
times  I'd  have  forgiven  you  .  .  .  and  you  knew  it,  Con- 
stantine. 

CONSTANTINE  recovers  his  humour,  his  cool  cour- 
tesy, and  his  inhumanity,  which  he  had  momentarily 
lost. 
CONSTANTINE.    Yes,  it  wasn't  so  easy  to  escape  your 


ACT  iv]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  123 

forgiveness.     If  it  weren't  for  Mahomet,  the  Prophet  of 
God,  Amelia,  I  should  hardly  be  escaping  it  now. 
PHILIP  comes  delicately  in. 

PHILIP.  I  beg  pardon  .  .  .  only  my  book.  [Which  he 
takes  from  the  piano.] 

CONSTANTINE.     Don't  go,  Phil. 

So  PHILIP  joins  them,  and  then,  as  silence  super- 
venes, says,  with  obvious  cheerfulness. 

PHILIP.    How  are  you  getting  on? 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [Her  tongue  released.]  Philip,  don't  be 
flippant.  It's  just  as  your  cousin  Ernest  said.  Your 
father  has  gone  and  pretended  to  marry  a  lot  of  wretched 
women  out  in  that  country  you  showed  me  on  the  map, 
and  I  don't  know  what's  to  be  done.  My  head's  going 
round. 

CONSTANTINE.    Not  a  lot,  Amelia. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  And  if  anybody  had  told  me,  when  I  was 
a  girl  at  school,  and  learning  about  such  things  in  History 
and  Geography,  that  I  should  ever  find  myself  in  such  a 
situation  as  this,  I  wouldn't  have  believed  them.  [She 
piles  up  the  agony.]  Constantine,  how  are  you  going  to 
face  me  Hereafter?  Have  you  thought  of  that?  Wasn't 
our  marriage  made  in  Heaven?  I  must  know  what  is 
going  to  happen  to  us  ...  I  simply  must.  I  have  always 
prayed  that  you  might  come  back  to  me,  and  that  I  might 
close  your  eyes  in  death.  You  know  I  have,  Philip,  and 
I've  asked  you  to  tell  him  so.  He  has  no  right  to  go 
and  do  such  wicked  things.  You're  mine  in  the  sight  of 
God,  Constantine,  and  you  can't  deny  it. 

Without  warning,  CONSTANTINE  loses  his  temper, 
jumps  up  and  thunders  at  her. 

CONSTANTINE.  Woman  ...  be  silent.  [Then,  as  in 
shame,  he  turns  his  back  on  her  and  says  in  the  coldest 
voice  .  .  .  ]  Philip,  I  have  several  things  to  talk  over 


124  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  iv 

with  you.    Suggest  to  your  mother  that  she  should  leave 
us  alone. 

PHILIP.  [Protesting  against  both  temper  and  dignity.'] 
1  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  While  my  father's  in 
England,  and  you're  in  our  house,  he  can  at  least  treat  his 
wife  with  politeness. 

MRS.  MADRAS.  [With  meek  satisfaction.]  I'd  rather  he 
didn't  .  .  .  it's  only  laughing  at  me.  I'll  go  to  bed.  I'd 
much  rather  he  lost  his  temper. 

She  gets  up  to  go.  CONSTANTINE'S  bitter  voice 
stops  her. 

CONSTANTINE.      Phil  .  .  .  when   you   were    a   boy  .  .  . 
your  mother  and  I  once  quarrelled  in  your  presence. 
PHILIP.     [In  bitterness,  too.]     I  remember. 
CONSTANTINE.     I'm  ashamed  of  it  to  this  day. 
MRS.  MADRAS.     [Quite  pleasantly.]  Well  .  .  .  I'm  sure  I 
don't  remember  it.    What  about  ? 

CONSTANTINE.  Oh  ...  this  terrible  country.  Every 
hour  I  stay  in  it  seems  to  rob  me  of  some  atom  of  self- 
respect. 

MRS.  MADRAS  joins  battle  again  at  this. 
MRS.  MADRAS.     Then  why  did  you  come  back?  And  why 
haven't  you  been  to  see  me  before  ...  or  written  to  me  ? 
CONSTANTINE.     [In  humorous  despair.]     Amelia,  don't 
aggravate  me  any  more.    Go  to  bed,  if  you're  going. 
MRS.  MADRAS.     I  wish  I'd  never  seen  you  again. 
PHILIP.     Good-night,  Mother. 

PHILIP  gets  her  to  the  door  and  kisses  her  kindly. 
Then  CONSTANTINE  says,  with  all  the  meaning  pos- 
sible .  .  . 
CONSTANTINE.    Good-bye,  Amelia. 

She  turns,  the  bright  hall  light  falling  on  her,  looks 
at  him  hatefully,  makes  no  other  reply,  goes.  PHILIP 
comes  back  to  the  fire.  All  this  is  bitter  to  him, 
tO9.  He  eyes  his  father. 


iv]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  125 

CONSTANTINE.  I'm  sorry.  I'm  upset.  I  was  upset  when 
I  came  here. 

BHILIP.    What  about?    The  visit  to  Denmark  Hill?  ' 

CONSTANTINE.  \Who  has  apparently  forgotten  that.'] 
No  ...  I  didn't  go  there,  after  all. 

PHILIP.     Funked  it? 

CONSTANTINE.  [Accepting  the  gibe.]  1  daresay.  Once 
we  were  off  the  bus,  Harry  began  to  mutter  about  hurting 
their  feelings.  I  daresay  I  was  funking  it,  too.  I  told 
him  to  tell  them  how  unbendingly  moral  he  had  been  with 
me.  He  shed  three  tears  as  we  parted. 

PHILIP.  Yes  .  .  .  my  mother  was  alone  here.  She's  a 
disappointed  woman  .  .  .  peevish  with  ill  health.  One 
has  her  at  a  disadvantage.  But  Aunt  Kate  .  .  .  unveiled 
and  confident,  with  six  corseted  daughters  to  back  her ! 

CONSTANTINE.  You  think,  of  course,  that  I've  always 
treated  your  mother  badly? 

PHILIP.  I  can't  help  thinking  so.  Was  it  the  only  way 
to  treat  her? 

CONSTANTINE.  Was  I  meant  to  pass  the  rest  of  a  life- 
time making  her  forget  that  she  was  as  unhappy  as  people 
who  have  outlived  their  purpose  always  are? 

PHILIP.  Personally,  I  have  this  grudge  against  you 
both,  my  dear  father.  As  the  son  of  a  quarrelsome  mar- 
riage, I  have  grown  up  inclined  to  dislike  men  and  de- 
spise women.  You're  so  full  of  this  purpose  of  getting 
the  next  generation  born.  Suppose  you  thought  a  little 
more  of  its  upbringing. 

CONSTANTINE.     What  was  wrong  with  yours? 

PHILIP.     I  had  no  home. 

CONSTANTINE.  You  spent  a  Sunday  with  me  every 
month.  You  went  to  the  manliest  school  I  could  find. 

PHILIP.  Never  mind  how  I  learnt  Latin  and  Greek. 
Who  taught  me  that  every  pretty,  helpless  woman  was  a 


126  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  iv 

man's  prey  .  .  .  and  how  to  order  my  wife  out  of  the 
room? 

CONSTANTINE.  [With  a  shrug.]  My  dear  boy  .  .  .  they 
like  it. 

PHILIP.     Do  they? 

CONSTANTINE.  Well  .  .  .  how  else  are  you  to  manage 
them? 

PHILIP.  Father,  don't  you  realise  that  ...  in  deca- 
dent England,  at  least,  this  manliness  of  yours  is  getting 
a  little  out  of  date  .  .  .  that  you  and  your  kind  begin  to 
look  foolish  at  last? 

CONSTANTINE.  [Voicing  the  discomfort  that  possesses 
hint.']  I  daresay.  Thank  God,  I  shall  be  quit  of  the  coun- 
try to-morrow !  I  got  here  late  this  evening  because  I 
travelled  three  stations  too  far  in  that  Tube,  sitting  oppo- 
site such  a  pretty  little  devil.  She  was  so  alive  ...  so 
crying  out  for  conquest  .  .  .  she  had  that  curve  of  the 
instep  and  the  little  trick  of  swinging  her  foot  that  I  never 
could  resist.  How  does  a  man  resist  it?  Yes.  That's 
ridiculous  and  ignominious  and  degrading.  I  escaped 
from  England  to  escape  from  it.  Old  age  here  ...  a 
loose  lip  and  a  furtive  eye.  I'd  have  asked  you  to  shoot 
me  first. 

PHILIP.     Was  it  that  upset  you? 

CONSTANTINE.  No.  [He  frowns;  his  thoughts  are  much 
elsewhere.  There  is  a  moment's  silence.  PHILIP  breaks 
it.-] 

PHILIP.  Father,  what  do  you  know  about  this  Miss 
Yates  affair? 

CONSTANTINE  gives  him  a  sharp  look;  then  carefully 
casual  .  .  . 

CONSTANTINE.    What  you've  told  me. 

PHILIP.     No  more? 

CONSTANTINE.    Is  there  more  to  know? 


ACT  iv]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  127 

PHILIP  fishes  out  and  hands  across  the  letter  over 
which  he  whistled. 
PHILIP.    This  has  just  come  from  Miss  Chancellor. 

CONSTANTINE.      Who's  she? 

PHILIP.  The  housekeeper  at  Peckham,  who  rashly  ac- 
cused Brigstock  of  being  the  other  responsible  party. 

CONSTANTINE.      Is   he? 

PHILIP.  I  think  not.  But  she  encloses  a  letter  she  has 
just  had  from  Brigstock's  solicitors,  to  the  effect  that 
both  an  apology  and  compensation  is  due  to  him  unless 
the  slander  is  to  come  into  court.  Hers  faithfully,  Mey- 
rick  &  Hodges. 

CONSTANTINE.  I  don't  know  them. 
PHILIP.  We  were  all  still  making  personal  remarks  at 
half -past  twelve  to-day  ...  so  by  their  expedition  I 
should  say  they  both  are  and  are  not  a  first-class  firm. 
But  suppose  the  whole  thing  is  made  public  .  .  .  then  the 
question  of  the  parentage  must  be  cleared  up.  Miss  Yates 
says  it's  nobody's  business  but  hers.  That's  an  odd  idea, 
in  which,  if  she  chooses  to  have  it,  the  law  seems  to  sup- 
port her. 

The  steady  eye  and  the  steady  voice  have  seemed  to 
make  the  tension  unbearable,  and  PHILIP  has  meant 
them  to.  But  he  hardly  expected  this  outburst. 
CONSTANTINE,  in  his  own  dramatically  dignified 
way,  has  a  fit  of  hysterics. 

CONSTANTINE.  Phil,  I  saw  the  little  baggage  when  the 
shop  closed.  I  insisted  on  her  meeting  me.  You  know 
how  I've  always  behaved  over  these  matters.  No  one 
could  have  been  kinder.  But  she  refused  money. 

PHILIP.  [Calling  on  the  gods  to  witness  this  occasion.'] 
Well  ...  I  might  have  guessed.  Oh  .  .  .  you  incorrigi- 
ble old  man ! 

CONSTANTINE.  She  insulted  me  .  .  .  said  she'd  done 
with  me  ...  denied  me  the  right  to  my  own  child.  I'd 


128  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  iv 

even  have  taken  her  away.    But  you're  helpless.     I  never 
felt  so  degraded  in  my  life. 
PHILIP.     Serve  you  right ! 

CONSTANTINE.  .  .  .  But  the  girl's  mad!  Think  of  my 
feelings.  What  does  it  make  of  m  e  ?  Did  she  know  what 
she  was  saying? 

PHILIP.  [Framing  his  thoughts  at  last.']  Possibly  not 
.  .  .  but  I'm  thankful  some  woman's  been  found  at  last 
to  put  you  in  your  place. 

These  parental-filial  passages  have  brought  the  two 
of  them  face  to  face,  strung  to  shouting  pitch.  They 
become  aware  of  it  when  JESSICA  walks  in  very 
gently. 

JESSICA.    Your  mother  gone? 
PHILIP.    To  bed. 

JESSICA.  [Conscious  of  thunder.']  Am  I  intruding?  I 
sent  Phil  in  for  his  book  a  while  ago.  He  didn't  return, 
so  I  judged  that  he  was.  Perhaps  I'm  not? 

CONSTANTINE  is  master  of  himself  again,  though  the 
hand  holding  the  letter  which  PHILIP  gave  him  does 
tremble  a  little  still. 

CONSTANTINE.  Well  .  .  .  what  does  Miss  Chancellor 
want? 

PHILIP.     She  asks  my  advice. 
CONSTANTINE.    Dismiss  Baxter. 
PHILIP.     D'you  mean  Brigstock? 
CONSTANTINE.    Brigstock,  then.    Dismiss  him. 
PHILIP.     What's  he  done  to  deserve  it? 
CONSTANTINE.    He  seems  a  nonentity  of  a  fellow,  and 
without  grit  enough  to  own  up  to  his  wife  and  risk  his 
place.     D'you  want  to  protect  a  man  from  the  conse- 
quences of  what  he  i  s? 
PHILIP.     Society  conspires  to. 
CONSTANTINE.    Then  pay  him  fiftv  pounds  for  the  dam- 


ACT  iv]         THE   MADRAS  HOUSE  129 

age  to  his  silly  little  reputation.  That'll  be  a  just  conse- 
quence to  you  of  sentimentalising  over  him. 

PHILIP.    And  stick  to  Miss  Chancellor? 

CONSTANTINE.  Certainly.  Thank  her  from  the  firm  for 
nosing  out  such  a  scandal. 

PHILIP.    And  what  about  Miss  Yates? 

JESSICA.    The  girl  in  your  office  this  morning? 

PHILIP.     Yes. 

JESSICA.     In  the  usual  trouble? 

PHILIP.     How  d'you  know  that? 

JESSICA.     By  the  tone  of  your  voice. 

CONSTANTINE.  \More  slowly,  more  carefully,  a  little  re- 
sentfully.] Dismiss  Miss  Yates.  Keep  your  eye  on  her 
.  .  .  and  in  a  year's  time  find  her  a  better  place  ...  if 
you  can  ...  in  one  of  these  new  Madras  Houses  of 
State's.  He  seems  to  pay  very  well.  [TTten  with  a  breath 
of  relief  he  becomes  his  old  charming  self  again.]  Let  us 
change  the  subject.  How  is  Mildred,  Jessica? 

JESSICA.    Growing. 

CONSTANTINE.  I've  an  appointment  with  my  solicitor 
to-night  .  .  .  ten  o'clock.  There  will  be  two  or  three 
thousand  pounds  to  come  to  that  young  lady  by  my  will. 
I  mean  to  leave  it  as  a  dowry  for  her  marriage  ...  its 
interest  to  be  paid  to  her  if  she's  a  spinster  at  thirty  .  .  . 
which  Heaven  forbid. 

PHILIP.    What  are  you  doing  with  the  rest,  Father? 

CONSTANTINE.  There  are  one  or  two  .  .  .  legacies  of 
honour,  shall  I  call  them?  What  remains  will  come  to 
you. 

PHILIP.    Yes  ...  I  don't  want  it,  thank  you. 

CONSTANTINE.     It  isn't  much. 

PHILIP.  Take  it  to  Hit,  that  charming  village  on  the 
borders  of  Southern  Arabia.  Stick  it  in  the  ground  .  .  . 
let  it  breed  more  corn  and  oil  for  you.  We've  too  much 
•f  it  already  ...  it  breeds  idleness  here. 


130  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  iv 

CONSTANTINE.    Dear  me ! 
They  settle  into  a  chat. 

JESSICA.  We're  discussing  a  reduction  of  our  in- 
come by  a  few  hundreds  a  year. 

PHILIP.     I'm  refusing  State's  directorship. 

JESSICA.  Though  I'm  waiting  for  Phil  to  tell  me  where 
the  saving's  to  come  in. 

PHILIP.  We  ought  to  change  that  school  of  Mildred's, 
for  one  thing. 

JESSICA.     Nonsense,  Phil! 

PHILIP.  My  dear  father,  I  spent  a  day  there  with  the 
child,  and  upon  my  word,  the  only  thing  she's  being  taught 
which  will  not  be  a  mere  idle  accomplishment  is  garden- 
ing. And  even  in  their  gardens  .  .  .  No  vegetables 
allowed ! 

JESSICA.  Phil,  I  don't  mean  to  have  any  nonsense  with 
Mildred  about  earning  her  living.  Accomplished  women 
have  a  very  good  time  in  this  world  .  .  .  serious  women 
don't.  I  want  my  daughter  to  be  happy. 

PHILIP.  If  we've  only  enough  life  left  to  be  happy  with 
we  must  keep  ourselves  decently  poor. 

CONSTANTINE   gets  Up. 

CONSTANTINE.  Could  you  get  me  a  taxi,  I  wonder?  It 
had  started  raining  when  I  came. 

PHILIP.    There'll  be  one  on  the  stand  opposite. 

CONSTANTINE.  I  mustn't  be  too  late  for  Voysey.  He 
makes  a  favour  of  coming  after  hours. 

JESSICA.  I  frankly  cultivate  expensive  tastes.  I  like  to 
have  things  beautiful  around  me.  I  don't  know  what  else 
civilisation  means. 

CONSTANTINE.  I  am  sure  that  Philip  can  refuse  you 
nothing. 

PHILIP.  If  I  do  dismiss  Miss  Yates,  I  wonder  if  I  could 
do  it  brutally  enough  to  induce  her  to  accept  some  com- 
pensation. 


ACT  iv]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  131 

JESSICA.     What  for? 

PHILIP.  She  won't  take  money  from  this  gentleman 
.  .  .  whoever  he  is  ...  that  is,  she  won't  be  bribed  into 
admitting  her  shame. 

JESSICA.  When  a  woman  has  gone  wrong  mayn't  it  be 
her  duty  to  other  women  to  own  up  to  it? 

CONSTANTINE.  [Who  has  stood  still  the  while,  stroking 
his  beard.]  If  your  auditors  won't  pass  any  decent  sum, 
I  should  be  happy  to  send  you  a  cheque,  Phil. 

PHILIP.  [With  a  wry  smile.]  That  would  be  very  gen- 
erous of  you,  Father. 

CONSTANTINE.    Good-bye,  Jessica. 

JESSICA.     Good-bye. 

CONSTANTINE.     Philip  is  fortunate  in  his  marriage. 

JESSICA.     So  good  of  you  to  remind  him  of  that. 

CONSTANTINE.  You  have  a  charming  home.  I  wonder 
how  much  of  your  womanly  civilisation  it  would  have 
needed  to  conquer  m  e.  Well  ...  I  leave  you  to  your 
conversation.  A  pleasant  life  to  you. 

He  bends  over  her  hand  as  if  to  kiss  it.  She  takes 
it,  as  if  fastidiously,  out  of  his  soft  grasp.  So  he 
bows  again  and  leaves  her. 

CONSTANTINE.  Victoria  at  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow, 
Philip. 

PHILIP.    Yes  .  .  .  I'll  see  you  off. 

CONSTANTINE.     I  have  to  do  a  little  shopping  quite  early. 

PHILIP.     Shopping!    What  can  the  West  send  the  East ? 

CONSTANTINE.     I  must  take  back  a  trinket  or  two. 

PHILIP.     To  be  sure.    We  do  the  same  on  our  travels. 
PHILIP  sees  him  through  the  hall  to  the  front  door, 
hails  a  stray  cab,  and  is  quit  of  him.    JESSICA  moves 
about  as  if  to  free  the  air  of  this  visitation,  and 
when  PHILIP  comes  back  .  .  . 

JESSICA.  Does  your  father  usually  scatter  cheques  so 
generously  and  carelessly? 


132  THE   MADRAS    HOUSE         [ACT  TV 

PHILIP.  Jessica,  while  I  have  every  respect  for  that 
young  lady's  independence  .  .  .  still  two  hundred  pounds 
would  be  all  to  the  good  of  the  child's  upbringing  .  .  . 
and  why  shouldn't  Miss  Yates  keep  her  secret? 

JESSICA.  Yes.  I  don't  like  your  father.  And  I'm 
sometimes  afraid  that  you're  only  an  intellectual  edition  of 
him.  It's  very  vital,  of  course,  to  go  about  seducing 
everybody  to  your  own  way  of  thinking.  But  really  it's 
not  quite  civilised.  You  ought  to  learn  to  talk  about  the 
weather. 

PHILIP.     I  cannot  talk  about  what  can't  be  helped. 

He  had  settled  to  a  chair  and  a  cigarette,  but  on  the 
impulse  he  abandons  both  and  starts  a  lively  argu- 
ment instead.  PHILIP'S  excited  arguments  are  car- 
ried on  in  short  dashes  about  the  room  and  with 
queer  un-English  gestures. 

PHILIP.  And  I  wonder  more  and  more  what  the  devil 
you  all  mean  by  civilisation.  This  room  is  civilisation. 
Whose  civilisation?  Not  ours. 

JESSICA.     [In  mock  despair."]    Oh,  dear ! 

PHILIP.  Cheer  up.  Didn't  you  marry  me  because  I 
thought  more  of  Bach  than  Offenbach?  Why  shouldn't 
you  share  a  fresh  set  of  convictions?  This  sort  of  mar- 
riage is  worth  while,  you  know.  Even  one's  quarrels  have 
a  certain  dignity. 

JESSICA.    Go  ahead  .  .  .  bless  your  heart. 

PHILIP.  [Shaking  his  fist  at  the  world  in  general.] 
Whitechapel  High  Street's  our  civilisation. 

JESSICA.     I  don't  know  it. 

PHILIP.  Therefore  you  don't  much  matter,  my  dear 
.  .  .  any  more  than  my  father  did  with  his  view  of  life 
as  a  sort  of  love-chase.  [He  surveys  the  charming  room 
that  is  his  home.'}  Persian  carpet  on  the  floor.  Last  sup- 
per, by  Ghirlandajo,  over  the  mantelpiece.  The  sofa 
you're  sitting  on  was  made  in  a  forgotten  France.  This 


ACT  iv]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  133 

is  a  museum.  And  down  at  that  precious  school  what  are 
they  cultivating  Mildred's  mind  into  but  another  museum 
...  of  good  manners  and  good  taste  and  .  .  .  [He 
catches  JESSICA'S  half  scornful,  half  kindly-quizzical  look.] 
Are  we  going  to  have  a  row  about  this  ? 

JESSICA.  If  you  Idealists  want  Mildred  to  live  in  the 
Whitechapel  Road  .  .  .  make  it  a  fit  place  for  her. 

PHILIP.  [Taking  the  thrust  and  enjoyably  returning  it.~] 
When  she  lives  in  it  it  will  become  so.  Why  do  I  give 
up  designing  dresses  and  running  a  fashion  shop  to  go  on 
the  County  Council  ...  if  I  can  get  on?  And  not  to 
cut  a  fine  figure  there,  either.  But  to  be  on  a  committee 
or  committees.  Not  to  talk  finely  even  then  .  .  .  Lord 
keep  me  from  the  temptation  .  .  .  but  to  do  dull,  hard 
work  over  drains  and  disinfectants  and  .  .  . 

JESSICA.     Well  .  .  .  why,  Phil?    I  may  as  well  know. 

PHILIP.     To  save  my  soul  alive. 

JESSICA.  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  may.  But  what  is  it 
we're  to  cultivate  in  poor  Mildred's  soul? 

PHILIP  stops  in  his  walk,  and  then  .  .  . 

PHILIP.  Why  not  a  sense  of  ugliness?  Have  you  ever 
really  looked  at  a  London  street  .  .  .  walked  slowly  up 
and  down  it  three  times  .  .  .  carefully  testing  it  with 
every  cultured  sense? 

JESSICA.    Yes.  .  .  .  it's  loathsome. 

PHILIP.    Then  what  have  you  done? 

JESSICA.    What  can  one  do  ? 

PHILIP.  Come  home  to  play  a  sonata  of  Beethoven! 
Does  that  drown  the  sights  and  the  sounds  and  the  smell 
of  it? 

JESSICA.    Yes  ...  it  does. 

PHILIP.  [In  fierce  revolt.]  Not  to  me  ...  my  God 
.  .  .  not  to  me ! 

JESSICA.  [Gently  bitter.']  For  so  many  women,  Phil, 
art  has  to  make  life  possible. 


134  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  iv 

PHILIP.  Suppose  we  teach  Mildred  to  look  out  of  the 
window  at  the  life  outside.  We  want  to  make  that 
impossible.  Neither  Art  nor  Religion  nor  good  man- 
ners have  made  of  the  world  a  place  I'll  go  on  living  in  if  I 
can  help  it.  [He  throws  himself  into  a  chair.]  D'you 
remember  in  my  young  days  when  I  used  to  spend  part 
of  a  holiday  lecturing  on  Shelley? 

JESSICA.     Yes. 

PHILIP.  I  remember  once  travelling  in  the  train  with 
a  poor  wretch  who  lived  ...  so  he  told  me  ...  on  what 
margins  of  profit  he  could  pick  up  by  standing  rather 
incompetently  between  the  corn  field  and  the  baker  .  .  . 
Or  the  coal  mine  and  the  fire  ...  or  the  landowner  and 
the  tenant  ...  I  forget  which.  And  he  was  weary  and 
irritable  and  unhealthy.  And  he  hated  Jones  .  .  .  because 
Jones  had  done  him  out  of  a  half  per  cent,  on  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  .  .  .  and  if  the  sum  had  been  bigger  he'd 
have  sued  him,  so  he  would.  And  the  end  of  Prometheus 
was  running  in  my  head  .  .  .  This,  like  thy  glory,  Titan, 
is  to  be  Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free  .  .  . 
and  I  thought  him  a  mean  fellow.  And  then  he  told  me 
how  he  dreaded  bankruptcy,  and  how  his  uncle,  who  had 
been  a  clerk,  had  come  to  the  workhouse  .  .  .  and  what 
a  disgrace  that  was.  And  I'm  afraid  he  was  a  little  drunk. 
And  I  wondered  whether  it  would  be  possible  to  interest 
h  i  m  in  the  question  of  Shelley's  position  as  a  prosodist 
...  or  whether  even  the  beauties  of  Prometheus  would 
comfort  him  at  all.  But  when  he  asked  me  what  I  was 
going  to  Manchester  for  ...  do  you  know,  I  was  ashamed 
to  tell  him  ? 

There  falls  a  little  silence.     Their  voices  hardly 
break  it. 

JESSICA.  Yes  ...  a  terrible  world  ...  an  ugly,  stu- 
pid, wasteful  world.  A  hateful  world! 

PHILIP.    And  yet  we  have  to  teach  Mildred  what  love 


ACT  iv]         THE  MADRAS   HOUSE  135 

of  the  world  means,  Jessica.  Even  if  it's  an  uncomfort- 
able business.  Even  if  it  means  not  adding  her  to  that 
aristocracy  of  good  feeling  and  good  taste  .  .  .  the  very 
latest  of  class  distinctions.  I  tell  you  I  haven't  come  by 
these  doubts  so  easily.  Beautiful  sounds  and  sights  and 
thoughts  are  all  of  the  world's  heritage  I  care  about. 
Giving  them  up  is  like  giving  my  carefully  created  soul 
out  of  my  keeping  before  I  die. 

JESSICA.  [With  a  sudden  fling  of  her  hands.']  And 
into  whose? 

PHILIP.  [Shaking  his  head  at  the  fire.']  I'm  afraid  into 
the  keeping  of  everybody  we  are  at  present  tempted  to 
dislike  and  despise.  For  that's  Public  Life.  That's  Dem- 
ocracy. But  that's  the  Future.  [He  looks  across  at  his 
wife  half  curiously.]  I  know  it's  even  harder  for  you 
women.  You  put  off  your  armour  for  a  man  you  love. 
But  otherwise  you've  your  Honour  and  Dignity  and 
Purity  .  .  . 

JESSICA.     Do  you  want  a  world  without  that,  either? 

PHILIP.  I  rather  want  to  know  just  what  the  world 
gets  by  it.  Those  six  thin  girls  at  my  uncle's  .  .  .  what 
do  we  get  from  them  or  they  from  the  world?  Little 
Miss  Yates,  now  .  .  .  her  transgressions  may  be  the  most 
profitable  thing  about  her  .  .  . 

JESSICA.    Two  wrongs  don't  make  a  right. 

PHILIP.  [Quaintly.]  They  often  do  ...  properly 
mixed.  Of  course  you  women  could  serve  yourselves  up 
to  such  lords  of  creation  as  my  father  quite  profitably,  in 
one  sense,  if  you  would. 

JESSICA.  [Her  lip  curling.]  Thank  you  .  .  .  we're  not 
cattle. 

PHILIP.  No.  Then  there's  a  price  to  be  paid  for  free 
womanhood,  I  think  .  .  .  and  how  many  of  you  ladies  are 
willing  to  pay  it?  Come  out  and  be  common  women 
among  us  common  men  ?  [He  leans  towards  her,  and  his 


136         ..     THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  IT 

voice  deepens.]  Jessica,  do  you  feel  that  it  was  you  shot 
that  poor  devil  six  months  ago?  .  .  .  that  it's  you  who 
are  to  be  hanged  to-morrow? 

JESSICA.     I  don't  think  I  do. 

PHILIP.  That  it's  your  body  is  being  sold  on  some  street 
this  evening? 

She  gives  a  little  most  genuine  shudder. 

JESSICA.     I  hate  to  think  about  such  things. 

PHILIP.  [Summing  up.~]  Then  there's  precious  little 
hope  for  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  upon  earth.  I  know 
it  sounds  mere  nonsense,  but  I'm  sure  it's  true.  If  we 
can't  love  the  bad  as  well  as  the  beautiful  ...  if  we 
won't  share  it  all  out  now  .  .  .  fresh  air  and  art  .  .  .  and 
dirt  and  sin  .  .  .  then  we  good  and  clever  people  are  cost- 
ing the  world  too  much.  Our  brains  cost  too  much  if 
we  don't  give  them  freely.  Your  beauty  costs  too  much  if 
I  only  admire  it  because  of  the  uglier  women  I  see  .  .  . 
even  your  virtue  may  cost  too  much,  my  dear.  Rags  pay 
for  finery  and  ugliness  for  beauty,  and  sin  pays  for  virtue. 
Why  can  nothing  keep  for  long  more  beauty  in  a  good 
man's  eyes  than  the  ugliest  thing  on  earth?  Why  need 
no  man  be  wiser  than  the  biggest  fool  on  earth?  Why 
does  it  profit  neither  man  nor  woman  to  be  more  righteous 
than  the  greatest  sinner  on  earth?  [He  clenches  his 
hands."]  These  are  the  riddles  this  Sphinx  of  a  world  is 
asking  me.  Your  artists  and  scholars  and  preachers  don't 
answer  them  ...  so  I  must  turn  my  back  for  a  bit  on 
artist  and  scholar  and  preacher  ...  all  three. 

JESSICA  looks  at  him  as  he  completes  his  apologia, 
sympathetic,  if  not  understanding.  Then  she  rallies 
him  cheerfully. 

JESSICA.  Meanwhile,  my  dear  Phil,  I  shall  not  stop 
subscribing  to  the  London  Symphony  Concerts  .  .  .  and  I 
shall  expect  you  to  take  me  occasionally. 

PHILIP.    [Jumping  back  from  his  philosophic  world.'] 


ACT  iv]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  187 

Oh  .  .  .  that   reminds  me  .  .  .  I've   a   message   for  you 
from  Tommy. 

JESSICA.  Have  you?  He  was  really  irritating  this 
morning. 

PHILIP.    We  must  take  Tommy  with  a  sense  of  hu- 
mour.   It  wasn't  so  much  a  message  as  one  of  those  little 
bursts  of  childlike  confidence  ...  he  endears  himself  to 
one  with  them  from  time  to  time. 
JESSICA.    About  me? 

PHILIP.  Yes.  What  it  comes  to  is  this.  Will  you 
please  not  flirt  with  him  any  more,  because  he  hasn't  the 
time,  and  he's  too  fond  both  of  me  and  his  wife  to  want 
to  find  himself  seriously  in  love  with  you. 

Now  PHILIP  has  not  said  this  unguardedly,  and  JES- 
SICA knows  it.    She'll  walk  into  no  little  trap  set  for 
her  vanity  or  the  like.     Still,  it  is  with  hardly  a 
steady  voice  that  she  says  simply  .  .  . 
JESSICA.     Thank  you  for  the  message. 

PHILIP  goes  cheerfully  on;  he  is  turning  the  fages 
of  his  book. 

PHILIP.     He  doesn't  at  all  suppose  you  are  in  love  with 
fiim  .  .  .  seriously  or  otherwise. 
JESSICA.     [Steadily.]    Do  you? 
PHILIP.     No. 

JESSICA.  [Her  tone  sharpening  still.]  And  is  this  the 
first  time  you've  discussed  me  with  Tommy  or  anyone? 
Please  let  it  be  the  last. 

PHILIP.    Are  you  angry,  Jessica? 
JESSICA.     I'm  more  than  angry. 
PHILIP.     I'm  sorry. 

Having  kept  her  temper  successfully,  if  not  the 
sense  of  humour  which  PHILIP  warned  her  he  was 
appealing  to,  JESSICA  now  allows  herself  a  deliber- 
ate outburst  of  indignation. 
JESSICA.     I  despise  men.     I  despised  them  when  I  was 


138  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  iv 

fifteen  .  .  .  the  first  year  I  was  conscious  of  them.  I've 
been  through  many  opinions  since  .  .  .  and  I  come  back 
to  despising  them. 

PHILIP.  He  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  be  pleased  with 
him.  But  he  has  my  sympathies,  Jessica. 

JESSICA.     [Throwing  back  her  head.]    H  a  s  he ! 

PHILIP.  Tommy  is  what  the  entertaining  State  called 
this  afternoon  the  Mean  Sensual  Man. 

JESSICA.  [With  utter  contempt.]  Yes.  When  we're 
alone,  having  a  jolly  talk  about  things  in  general,  he's  all 
the  time  thinking  I  want  him  to  kiss  me. 

PHILIP.  While  what  you  really  want  is  to  have  him 
wanting  to  kiss  you  but  never  to  kiss  you. 

JESSICA.     [In  protest.]    No. 

PHILIP.     [Fixing  her  with  a  finger.]     Oh,  yes,  Jessica. 
JESSICA'S  sense  of  humour  returns  for  a  moment. 

JESSICA.    Well  ...  I  can't  help  it  if  he  does. 

PHILIP.  You  can,  of  course.  And  the  Mean  Sensual 
Man  calls  it  being  made  a  fool  of. 

She  puts  a  serious  face  on  it  again;  not  that  she 
can  keep  one  with  PHILIP'S  twinkling  at  her. 

JESSICA.  I  give  you  my  word  I've  never  tried  to  flirt 
with  Tommy  .  .  .  except  once  or  twice  when  he  has  been 
boring  me.  And  perhaps  once  or  twice  when  I  was  in  the 
dumps  .  .  .  and  there  he  was  .  .  .  and  I  was  boring  him. 
I  know  him  too  well  to  flirt  with  him  .  .  .  you  can't  flirt 
with  a  man  you  know  well.  But  he's  been  boring  me 
lately,  and  I  suppose  I've  been  a  bit  bored.  But  suppose 
I  have  been  flirting  with  him  ...  I  thought  he  was  safe 
enough.  [That  attempt  failing,  there  is  a  tack  left,  and 
on  this  she  really  manages  to  work  herself  back  to  indig- 
nation.] And  a  caddish  thing  to  go  speaking  to  you 
about  it 

PHILIP.     So  he  said  .     .  so  he  said. 


ACT  rv]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE  139 

JESSICA.  Worse  than  caddish  .  .  .  outrageous !  I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing  .  .  .  you  shouldn't  have  let  him. 

PHILIP.  Should  I  have  knocked  him  down  when  he 
mentioned  your  name? 

JESSICA.     Yes  ...  I  wish  you  had. 

'PHILIP.    Little  savage! 

JESSICA.    I  can't  laugh  about  this.    I'm  hurt. 

PHILIP.  My  dear,  if  you  have  any  sense  at  all,  you'll 
ask  him  to  dinner  and  chaff  him  about  it  ...  before  me. 

JESSICA.  Have  you  any  understanding  of  what  a 
woman  feels  when  men  treat  her  like  this  ?  Degraded  and 
cheapened. 

But  the  high  moral  tone  PHILIP  will  not  stand.   He 
drops  chaff  and  tackles  her. 

PHILIP.  I  can  tell  you  what  the  man  feels.  He'll  be 
either  my  father  or  me.  That's  your  choice.  Tommy's 
my  father  when  you've  put  on  your  best  gown  to  attract 
him,  or  he's  me  when  he  honestly  says  that  he'd  rather 
you  wouldn't.  Do  you  want  him  to  be  me  or  my  father? 
That's  the  first  question  for  you. 

JESSICA.  I  want  a  man  to  treat  a  woman  with  courtesy 
and  respect. 

PHILIP.  And  what  does  that  come  to?  My  dear,  don't 
you  know  that  the  Mean  Sensual  Man  ...  no,  not  Tom- 
my for  the  moment,  but  say  Dick  or  Harry  .  .  .  looks  on 
you  all  as  choice  morsels  .  .  .  with  your  prettinesses,  your 
dressings  up,  your  music  and  art  as  so  much  sauce  to  his 
appetite.  Which  only  a  mysterious  thing  called  your 
virtue  prevents  him  from  indulging  .  .  .  almost  by  force, 
if  it  weren't  for  the  police,  Jessica.  Do  you  like  that? 

JESSICA.     I  don't  believe  it. 

PHILIP.  Do  you  really  believe  that  most  men's  good 
manners  towards  most  pretty  women  are  anything  else 
but  good  manners? 

JESSICA.     I  prefer  good  manners  to  yours.    [Then,  both 


140  THE   MADRAS   HOUSE        [ACT  iv 

fine  taste  and  sense  of  humour  to  the  rescue  again.]     No 
.  .  .  that's  rude. 

PHILIP.  [With  much  more  affection  than  the  words 
convey.]  I  treat  you  as  a  man  would  treat  another  man 
.  .  .  neither  better  nor  worse.  Is  the  compliment  quite 
wasted  ? 

JESSICA.  [As  amazed  at  this  unreasonable  world.]  I 
want  to  be  friends  with  men.  I'd  sooner  be  friends  with 
them.  It's  they  who  flirt  with  me.  Why? 

PHILIP.  [Incurably  mischievous.]  Of  course  I've  for- 
gotten what  you  look  like,  and  I  never  notice  what  you 
have  on  ...  but  I  suspect  it's  because  you're  rather  pretty 
and  attractive. 

JESSICA.     Do  you  want  women  not  to  be? 

PHILIP.     No. 

JESSICA.  It's  perfectly  sickening.  Of  course,  if  I  had 
dozens  of  children,  and  grew  an  old  woman  with  the  last 
one,  I  should  be  quite  out  of  danger.  But  we  can't  all  be 
like  that  .  .  .  you  don't  want  us  to  be. 

PHILIP.     [Purely  negative.]     No. 

He  leaves  her  free  to  justify  herself. 

JESSICA.  I  do  my  share  of  things.  I  make  a  home  for 
you.  I  entertain  your  friends.  It  may  cost  your  precious 
world  too  much  .  .  .  my  civilisation  .  .  .  but  you  want  all 
this  done.  [Then  with  a  certainly  womanly  reserve.]  And 
Phil  .  .  .  suppose  I'm  not  much  nicer  by  nature  than 
some  of  you  men?  When  I  was  a  baby,  if  I'd  not  been 
fastidious  I  should  have  been  a  sad  glutton.  My  culture 
.  .  .  my  civilisation  .  .  .  mayn't  be  quite  up  to  keeping 
the  brilliant  Tommy  a  decent  friend  to  me,  but  it  has  its 
uses. 

But  PHILIP  means  to  laugh  this  out  of  court,  too. 

PHILIP.  Look  here,  if  it's  only  your  culture  keeps  you 
from  kissing  Tommy  .  .  .  kiss  him. 


ACT  iv]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE 

To  be  so  driven  from  pillar  to  post  really  does 
exasperate  her. 

JESSICA.  Phil  ...  I  sometimes  think  I'd  sooner  have 
been  married  to  your  father. 

PHILIP.     Why? 

JESSICA.  If  you  went  on  as  he  did  instead  of  as  you 
do  ...  I  should  be  sorry  ...  I  should  despise  you  .  .  . 
but  it  would  string  me  up  and  add  to  my  self-respect  enor- 
mously! [Then  a  little  appealingly.']  But  it's  when 
you're  inhuman,  Phil  .  .  .  that  I'm  ever  so  little  tempted. 

PHILIP.  [Contrite  at  once.']  I  know  I  am.  [Then  he 
gets  up  to  stand  looking  into  the  fire,  and  what  he  says 
is  heartfelt.]  But  I  do  so  hate  that  farm-yard  world  of 
sex  .  .  .  men  and  women  always  treating  each  other  in 
this  unfriendly  way  .  .  .  that  I'm  afraid  it  hardens  me 
a  bit. 

JESSICA.     [From  her  side,  gently,  with  just  a  look  at 
him.]    I  hate  it,  too  .  .  .  but  I  happen  to  love  you,  Phil. 
They  smile  at  each  other. 

PHILIP.  Yes,  my  dear.  If  you'd  kindly  come  over  here 
...  I  should  like  to  kiss  you. 

JESSICA.    I  won't.    You  can  come  over  to  me. 

PHILIP.     Will  you  meet  me  half  way? 

They  meet  half  way,  and  kiss  as  husband  and  wife 
can.    They  stand  together,  looking  into  the  fire. 

PHILIP.  Do  you  know  the  sort  of  world  I  want  to 
live  in? 

JESSICA.     Should  I  like  it? 

PHILIP.    Hasn't  Humanity  come  of  age  at  last? 

JESSICA.    Has  it? 

PHILIP.  Mayn't  we  hope  so?  Finery  sits  so  well  on 
children.  And  they  strut  and  make  love  absurdly  .  .  . 
even  their  quarrelling  is  in  all  good  faith  and  innocence. 
But  I  don't  see  why  we  men  and  women  should  not  find 
all  happiness  .  .  .  and  beauty,  too,  ...  in  soberer  pur- 


THE   MADRAS   HOUSE         [ACT  iv 

poses.  And  with  each  other  .  .  .  why  not  always  some 
touch  of  the  tranquil  understanding  which  is  yours  and 
mine,  dear,  at  the  best  of  moments? 

JESSICA.  [Happily.]  Do  you  mean  when  we  sometimes 
suddenly  want  to  shake  hands? 

PHILIP.  [Happily,  too.']  That's  it.  And  I  want  an  art 
and  a  culture  that  shan't  be  just  a  veneer  on  savagery 
.  .  .  but  it  must  spring  in  good  time  from  the  happiness 
of  a  whole  people. 

JESSICA  gives  herself  one  little  shake  of  womanly 
commonsense. 

JESSICA.    Well,  what's  to  be  done? 

PHILIP.  [Nobody  more  practical  than  he.]  I've  been 
making  suggestions.  We  must  learn  to  live  on  a  thousand 
a  year  .  .  .  put  Mildred  to  a  sensible  school  .  .  .  and  I 
must  go  on  the  County  Council.  That's  how  these  great 
spiritual  revolutions  work  out  in  practice,  to  begin  with. 

JESSICA.  [As  one  who  demands  a  right.]  Where's  my 
share  of  the  job? 

PHILIP.  [Conscious  of  some  helplessness.]  How  is  a 
man  to  tell  you?  There's  enough  to  choose  from. 

JESSICA.  [The  burden  of  her  sex's  present  -fate  upon 
her.]  Ah,  you're  normal.  Nobody  sizes  you  up  as  a 
good  man  or  a  bad  man  .  .  .  pretty  or  plain.  There's 
a  trade  for  bad  women  and  several  professions  for  plain 
ones.  But  I've  been  taught  how  to  be  charming  and  to 
like  dainty  clothes.  And  I  dare  say  I'm  excitable  and 
emotional  .  .  .  but  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  well  off,  married 
to  you,  I  know.  You  do  make  me  forget  I'm  a  female 
occasionally. 

PHILIP.  Male  and  female  created  He  them  .  .  .  and 
left  us  to  do  the  rest.  Men  and  women  are  a  long  time 
in  the  making  .  .  .  aren't  they? 

JESSICA.     [Enviously.]    Oh  ...  you're  all  right 


ACT  iv]         THE   MADRAS   HOUSE 

PHILIP.  [With  some  humble  knowledge  of  himself.  ~\ 
Are  we? 

JESSICA.  But  I  tell  you,  Phil,  it  isn't  so  easy  for  us. 
You  don't  always  let  us  have  the  fairest  of  chances,  do 
you? 

PHILIP.     No,  I  grant  it's  not  easy.    But  it's  got  to  be 
done. 
JESSICA.    Yes  .  .  . 

She  doesn't  finish,  for  really  there  is  no  end  to  the 
subject.  But  for  a  moment  or  two  longer,  happy 
together,  they  stand  looking  into  the  fire. 


t>r,'nO    1 


THE   MADRAS   HOUSE 


"The  Madras  House"  was  produced  at  the  Duke  of 
York's  Theatre  (Mr.  Charles  Frohman's  Repertory  Thea- 
tre), on  the  evening  of  March  pth,  1910. 


HENRY  HUXTABLE 
KATHERINE  HUXTABLE 
LAURA  HUXTABLE 
MINNIE  HUXTABLE 
CLARA  HUXTABLE 
JULIA  HUXTABLE 
EMMA  HUXTABLE 
JANE  HUXTABLE 
MAJOR  HIPPISLY  THOMAS 
PHILIP  MADRAS 
JESSICA  MADRAS 
CONSTANTINE  MADRAS 
AMELIA  MADRAS 
EUSTACE  PERRIN  STATE 
MARION  YATES 
MR.  BRIGSTOCK 
MRS.  BRIGSTOCK 
Miss  CHANCELLOR 

MR.   WlNDLESHAM 

MR.  BELHAVEN 
THREE  MANNEQUINS 

A  MAID  AT  DENMARK  HILL 
A  MAID  AT  PHILLIMOKE  GARDVNS 


E.  W.  Garden 
Miss  Florence  Haydon 
Miss  Ada  Marius 
Miss  Elizabeth  Chesney 
Miss  Joy  Chatwin 
Miss  Victoria  Addison 
Miss  Sybil  Thorndike 
Miss  Nell  Carter 
Charles  Bryant 
Dennis  Eadie 
Miss  Fay  Davis 
Sydney  Valentine 
Miss  May  Whitty 
Arthur  Whitby 
Miss  Mary  Jerrold 
Lewis  Cassvn 
Miss  Mary  Barton 
Miss  Geraldine  Olliffe 
Charles  Maude 
Donald  Calthorp 
Miss  Asia  Fleming 
Miss  Mair  Vaughan 
Miss  Mary  Brenda 
Miss  Millie  Emden 
Miss  Evangeline  Milliard 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-25m-7,'61(C1437s4)4280 


College 
Library 


UCLA-College  Library 

PR  6013  G778m 


L  005  696  712  8 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY '  FACILITY 


A    001  189332    8 


